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[nothingofnote]

Lyssa's attitude to 19th century London had changed. It had to really when you got stuck in a place for a while. It helped the miserable old git she'd been introduced to had been so easily swayed. Most of them were. Didn't take a lot for her to start getting the control she wanted without them even realising it. So she liked it. She even liked the little part of London that seemed like hell they called Jacob's Island. Even if that idiot writer was trying to get rid of it. That was her's. Well, not so much openly, couldn't be done having a woman in charge of things. But it was her's.

She settled into the corner of the cripples and wrapped a hand around a bottle of gin protectively.

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[42flavoursofamy.livejournal.com]

Bill strides, as he often does, into the Three Cripples and completely ignores the rest of the clientele. As far as he's concerned they're about as interesting as the underside of one of the tables. And possibly considerably more beer-sodden.

Bullseye on the other hand finds it very interesting when a terrified looking man decides to make a run for it as soon as Bill's back is turned, and his growl rolls through the pub at groin height. The man drops back into his seat, pale and shaking, and peers mournfully into his pint mug.

Bullseye, satisfied that his work has been done, and that Bill will probably get around to the man later takes a proper sniff at the air, and, tail wagging, he makes a beeline for Lyssa. He likes Lyssa.

Bill meanwhile has harassed a barmaid into handing over a large gin and he's currently glaring the wall behind the bar into submission. It's not going well. For the moment, Bill doesn't care to notice that Bullseye's gone walkies, but once he's finished with the wall, the rest of the pub may well become the focus of his ire. Today has not been a good day.