Goodvalor's Little Bivoli, Sunday

[cataclysmicluck.livejournal.com]

Fandom had been very, very quiet all week. Almost too quiet. The kind of quiet that led to strange balancing of things all around him. That was probably why two of his droids decided it would be fun to try knife fighting. Of course, their bodies were much stronger than their knives, so they had to keep grabbing new knives before Zayne broke things up. He'd need to get new knives tomorrow.

Today's Special:
Soup. Just not any kind with things that need to be chopped up.

[OOC: I am tired and my nose is stuffed up. I have no energy for OCD.]

Halfway Between Fandom and IKEA

[crusheverything]

As the returning vacationers rolled back across the causeway, they would see, if they were looking out the left side of the bus (as would anyone on the island whose gaze was directed that way), a curious sight: the ever-present clouds of steam and residual ash hovering around the new land mass in the bay were lifting.

In their place stood a small island, not even half the size of the Isle of IKEA. You could maybe fit a house on it, or three if you got along really well with your neighbors. Heck, there might be a house or three on it; those watching from the bus or from Fandom would only be able to guess at that, because once past its black, rocky coast, the tiny island was shrouded in a thick, dark, highly improbable Swedish forest of spruce, pine, and birch trees.

On the shore closest to Fandom stood a large wooden sign, rooted in the earth just like one of those trees, and printed in neat, thousand-point-high Verdana:

Welcome to Ingvar Islet

KEEP OFF!

Attack-squid/nanny on duty.

Fandom may have had a few post-partum overprotectiveness issues.

Those who looked closely might notice an occasional semi-friendly tentacle-wave emerging from the waters surrounding the islet.

[Establishy, but also open for reactions!]

The Park, Sunday Evening

[olympian-herc.livejournal.com]

Hercules had arrived at the Causeway via Portalocity, covered in sweat and a few bandaged wounds. He did not feel entirely well leaving Manhattan behind, but he knew that he had commitments here, as well. But the legions of new Ares worshipers would taste his steel soon enough. And he had new friends that he would need to visit, as well.

Instead of heading to his apartment like a sane person, instead the former-demigod instead had bought a six-pack of Lionshead Lager and settled into a park bench to drink. As you do. He popped open a can and raised it to the heavens.

"To those who have fallen, to those who fight, and most importantly, to those who believe in what is right."

He snickered into the lip of the can as he took a sip. "I did not mean to rhyme."

[ooc: Open park, open post.]