[devil's den] alcohol poisoning is for quitters //open//

This wasn't working. Two was going to have make a choice. He looked mournfully at the options in front of him: a shaker and large tome concerning muggle market elasticity. Most nights Two could multitask like it was nobody' business and he had a planned to get through chapters 5-30 of this book before last call. But as he was, there was no way that he could perform his bartender duties and still be able to read without spilling everywhere.

At the moment, the den keeper's left arm was tied up in a cloth sling, his shoulder immobilized by a system of wooden splints and wrapped fabric. He looked a little pitiful, but most people who knew him just assumed he'd gotten roughed up at Grimli or in a fight with a regular. Most days the young man was a little scrapped up, so no one asked him any questions about it. As long as Two could make drinks that got you drunk out of your damn head, it didn't really matter.

In truth, this was the fate of being Vulcan's favorite guinea pig. The giant man loved dragging Two all the way down to the R & D level to test out his newest tech. Vulcan was one of the best spell designers and magi-tech developers in the world, but he was far more interested in the BOOM than he was with what the rest of the town was gonna look like once one of his devices dropped. He liked choosing Two because Two was perfectionist, despite being a "whiny and critical little shit" as he so frequently liked to remind him. But Two could break it down, deconstruct the design and spin the problem in 3D and point out the flaws Vulcan might now have seen coming.

He was just lucky this time Vulcan had asked him to be the tester, and not the person being tested on. The weapon this round was a set of metal and leather gauntlets that criss crossed all the way up the forearm. Vulcan had embedded them with a series of command spells and enchantment subroutines that were designed to release a concentrated percussive blast if the spells were activated correctly. The gauntlets were amazingly powerful, but the force of the recoil had separated Two's right shoulder from its socket and nearly did the same to his left. The young man had taken off the gauntlets, pointed out the holes in Vulcan's containment spells, and hobbled off to the infirmary swearing painfully under his breath.

So here he was. Standing behind the bar at the den trying to figure out how to mix drinks with one hand. The sling was tight, supposedly to keep his shoulder in his arm while the potion glued it back in. As he considered his predicament, a figure approached the bar, sitting in front of him with a very tired expression and a few injuries of their own. Newly determined, Two cracked the knuckles in his left hand and then uncorked a bottle of Re'em's Barrel. He poured it into a crystal glass and then placed it in front of the newcomer with a napkin and a bundle of ice wrapped in cloth.

"You look like you've has a worse day than I did. On the house."

Reine's eyes glared down at the mediwizard who twisted her wand around Reine's elbow, the dancer had once again overextended a joint. She growled out "This is hardly necessary, I am FINE you bitch!" in a very ferocious French tone. The young mediwizard looked up at her apologetically, it was clear she didn't understand what Reine said. She had only been traveling with the company for a couple months, and they had finally gotten to London, Reine was not about to sit the sidelines of the rest of the tour. The way the young French witch looked at her caretaker looked as if she was trying to blow her up with just her glare. When the mediwizard was finally done and Reine's elbow had been wrapped up, she stood, grabbed her coat, and stormed out. She pulled on clothes as she made her way around backstage, exposing herself momentarily. When she found the exit, she pulled a flask from inside her coat pocket and tipped it to the sky, consuming it's entire contents before she twisted on the spot and apparated with a pop.

She arrived, stumbling a bit, in a cobblestone street. She knew roughly where she was simply from the directions she took from a rather attractive audience member she met after the show. The girl had slipped Reine the name of a bar and batted her eyelashes just as the dancer was being pulled back to get her elbow examined. She pulled the scrap parchment from her pocket and squinted at it, the letters were already looking fuzzy. However, she just found a bubble of activity, and slipped in the door of an establishment called the Devil's Den.

The young witch had to admit, she hoped she would run into the cute girl from the ballet. Reine would certainly offer her a private dance lesson, but first, tracking her down. She ran her hands through her short blonde hair, and set out into the bar through a grimy-looking door. Her heavily shadowed eyes scanned the room, and her plump lips pursed. She didn't see the girl, she walked further in, craning her neck. Reine rolled her eyes and walked over to the bar, she stumbled up onto a barstool and continued looking. Now she felt drunk and annoyed, and she sighed. Nearly immediately, she heard a voice and saw a drink slide her way. She looked up through her lashes, and put on a coy smile; anyone who greeted her with a drink was a person she wanted to know. The man across the bar looked rather worn, and honestly Reine questioned exactly what he was doing behind there. Was he even supposed to be back there? The French woman bit the inside of her lip, looking like she was about to say something sarcastic, "That obvious is it?" She asked, her accent noticeable, she'd all but forgotten about the wrap on her arm, and she was now merely annoyed she was in a city where she knew nobody. She missed Chateoil, she could go to the bars and see a number of people she knew every night.

"What happened to you? You 'ave had a bad night as well, were you fighting?" She looked at him like he had a whole book of undiscovered stories for her to find out. She took a long drink from the glass and tried to mask the reaction to the strong drink. Reine was an experienced drinker, but strong liquor just never got easier. She smiled over at the bartender, he looked about her age. He honestly probably had not been in a fight, but Reine knew thats what she wanted to hear. Her smile was flirty, and she decided even if that hot girl ditched her, she was going to have a fun night. "How about this, I'll tell you a completely made up story about how I got this," she lifted her elbow, " If you keep the drinks coming, and tell me a made up story about how you got that." She tipped her glass up, taking another swig, When in London...