Somewhere in the multiverse - you really can't be more precise - there's a bar.

The bar apparently thinks it's winter today, and time to be festive about it.  Fireplaces are around the hall, with fires crackling in them.  Garlands of holly and ivy and pine branches drape the walls.  Snow is falling near the large windows looking out over novas that seem to be more like fireworks tonight.

(And somehow, the logs in the fireplace never seem to be consumed by the crackling flames, and the snow never seems to melt on the floor even though it shouldn't be anywhere near cold enough for it to stay snow.)

A man with brown hair and a blueish shirt with lace on the sleeves is sitting in a soft chair near one of the fireplaces, nursing a large steaming mug of cider and looking between his thick book and his surroundings.