isleofavalon | ⏪ humbug

Entry tags:

⏪ humbug | OPEN

Who: Leone Abbacchio and OPEN
What: Various prompts include getting shrunk down by angry pixies, barhopping, and trying to find some old lady's lost cat.
When: Throughout December
Where: Various places throughout Camelot and its surrounding areas
Warnings: N/A

⏪ I. HONEY I SHRANK THE MAFIOSO

[It's a bit ironic considering what his familiar is, but-- well. Here he is, just shortly after he'd told the gaggle of pixies to fuck off after they attempted to pester him into their little party.

Apparently, they did not take well to it.

So: Leone Abbacchio is now suddenly much smaller, no bigger than his own familiar. Once a very tall man, now a small angry pixie-sized disaster. He grumbles to himself, trying to find his way back, but it turns out being this small means it's going to take forever to get anywhere.]

Stupid little fuckers.

⏪ II. HUMBUG

[Working on his own is not one of Abbacchio's strongest feats. As such, he's felt listless since his arrival, mostly spending his time indoors and away from people if he can help it. But even he, as antisocial as he is, cannot live purely as a hermit. Besides, his wine bottle is empty and he'd rather try to be anywhere but his flat to be miserable for the holidays.

Seated at a fairly quiet bar, Abbacchio is pouring himself a glass of wine. His familiar, the little blue pixie, is sitting cross-legged on top of the bar.

He considers.]

Hey. Leave a shot glass for her.

[The bartender does, and Abbacchio pours some wine for her.]

C'mon. You might as well get something out of this.

[The pixie looks curiously at the glass in front of her, then takes a sip.]

That's the spirit.

⏪ III. THE HUNT FOR MITTENS

And where did you last see your cat?

[Oh, goodness. Just right here on this porch. I went inside for just a moment to pull out my cookies from the oven, and when I came back out she was gone! An old lady sniffles, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. You don't think someone kidnapped her, do you?!]

Depends on if you pissed off anyone recently. [There's a pause, then a meager attempt at manners:] ...Ma'am.

[Well, I know the neighbors get very jealous of my turnips. I grow them as big as a watermelon! Do you like turnips, young man?]

I'm, uh. ... I'm good. Listen, I'll have an ask around about your cat.

[Shoving his hands into his pockets, he slips away before the old nonna starts chatting away at him.

Ugh. He shakes his head. This would be so much be easier if he still had his Stand.]

⏪ IV. WILDCARD

[Make your own prompt or request one!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's not, actually. Wine is fermented; spirits are distilled.

[So says the anonymous gentleman on a stool a few seats down, in shirtsleeves and a black vest and two fingers of brandy idling in a glass in front of him atop a napkin. Normally he wouldn't commentate at all, but the fact of the matter is, this bar is basically dead but for the two of them, and it almost seems a little silly not to acknowledge each other, given the circumstances.

Also, like. Is he going to turn down the opportunity to be Technically Right About Something™? Of course not.]

I'm surprised you aren't recommending the Green Fairy, for your blue one.

[God, he's so fucking clever.]

[And here Abbacchio was perfectly ready to never speak to another human being, and this guy has the nerve to address him. Oh? You're speaking to him?!

He tsks, mildly annoyed but not largely bothered. Maybe he's had enough wine to make it tolerable.]

Wine's my preferred poison. Figured she should have a taste if we're stuck with each other.

Wasting time until the night is done? You don't come to these kinds of places often. [He says it, like he knows who this guy even is.]

[On a different night, maybe, he might've waved that assumption off. Maybe it's just that it's that time of the year, dark early, cold outside the warm amber glow of the bar interior. Maybe it's that he's already feeling unlike himself, privately intrigued by the prospect of being an anonymous nobody for a few hours and eager to test its boundaries. Maybe it's that he's had enough brandy to feel warm without actually having a buzz yet, and that's a pleasant enough feeling, too.

Tonight, he doesn't wave the assumption off. There's an intriguing thread running through its tapestry, after all, and he wants to tug on it a little.]

Oh, I don't? What makes you say that?

[The pixie continues to sip from her glass of wine, looking more and more delighted to drink. Abbacchio, for his part, refills his own glass before continuing on with the stranger.]

You're decently dressed out in an empty bar on Christmas Eve. So either you got dumped or you're trying to avoid something, and this place isn't exactly high class to begin with.

[It's probably rude to say that kind of shit to someone whose name you don't even know, but, well, no one's ever claimed Leone Abbacchio was the nicest man around.]

[Normally, he might've kept his face impassive; as it is, he doesn't bother to disguise the way his eyebrows go up. That was a level of clarity and reason that he admittedly wouldn't have expected from a man who, well. Looks like he just rolled off of a goth rock band's album cover.]

You're observant. Either that, or a lucky guesser.

[But this, now — no, there's intrigue in this. Something to take his mind off of things. A challenge, to go with the passing of the time and his drink.]

Go on. What else?

[Ah ha. Got 'im. Abbacchio's lips twitch, but he manages to not look too amused as he goes in to have a sip of his wine.]

I'll let you decide.

[He considers, then turns to look at Mr. Fancypants, actually observing him more.]

You don't look stiff in your clothes, so you're used to them. And they're not cheap either. So either you're a spoiled brat, or you're used to a lucrative living. Maybe it's both.

[Well, what do you know. This might actually be...not fun, exactly, but an acceptable diversion. Certainly the prospect of solving a puzzle is far preferable to sitting around thinking about a boat and a lake and a gun and an erroneous indictment for murder.]

As opposed to you, who wears your attire like a shield. You don't invite remark so much as dare anyone who sees you to comment.

[Idly, he makes a small circle with his glass, making the amber liquid begin to circle the edges like a tiny whirlpool.]

You haven't let your glass go empty yet, and that bottle isn't a particularly quality vintage — you're not a connoisseur. You'll drink what's available, because it's the outcome that matters, not the experience.

[He considers a minute, head tilting very slightly to the side.]

I probably infuriate you. A spoiled brat with my fancy liquor, taking up space on your bar. Thinking I know anything about you. Everything about me is pretense, and at least you're authentic, for whatever result that gets you.

[The turn of phrase makes his fingers tense over the stem of his wine glass. The outcome that matters. He's heard that from the two most important men in his life; where's this guy get off saying that to him? Abbacchio scowls for a moment. His familiar finishes her glass with a giggle and hugs the bottle.]

You have pretense because you're supposed to. That's what you tell yourself anyway. I get needing to adapt like that. I've known a few people who need to wear a mask like that.

So you have or used to have a high stakes life.

Less so, these days.

[Hmm. Something he said touched a nerve, did it? Still, it's impressive just how much presence of mind the man has, after drinking for at least as long as Edgeworth has been here, and perhaps then some.]

All right. What did I used to do for a living?

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