milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"But my Lady Bar, I must have a sword. How shall I defend myself or my king without one?" D'Artagnan sighs, sneezes into the handkerchief he has as he stares at the unhelpful note.

"I will drink a posset since you ask it but this isn't right," He takes up the warm drink she offers him and goes to sulk by the fire, his shirt doesn't seem as warm as it should be and he dislikes feeling so weak and unarmed. At least she provided him with clothing that suits him rather than those drab things he found in the room he awoke in.

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[ooc: i couldn't resist the chance for these two hotheads to meet...]

Harry is-- not feeling great. He's wearing strange clothes, and not really sure why. He was out on the lawn, and was... not himself? Somehow? He's still feverish, and it all seems hazy-- so he decides not to think about it too deeply for now.

But he overhears the young man's request, and cannot resist interjecting, "O, she is passing miserly with steel, our Lady Bar. You will have no weapon of her."

(OOC: Yay!)

D'Artagnan is leaning more on the counter than he would like but the drink is delicious, "Not even a knife to eat my meat? How will I defend myself? It casts dishonor about the musketeers to walk unarmed."

"A knife she will grant," Harry says. "And indeed, that I do not understand-- for the smallest blade may be turned amiss."

He coughs, then clears his throat. "But a musketeer-- I know not that title."

"Not know the musketeers who protect King Louis XIII of France, the most trusted men in all of France. What are you, English?"

Perhaps an Englishman might not know, they are rather foolish.

"I am English," Harry says, puffing out his chest a bit. "And by my reckoning, the Louis of France do but number ten-- and that I might call ten too many!"

Sure, he's made his peace with the 19th century Frenchmen of Milliways, but anyone who calls him English in that tone of voice is another matter.

"How dare you speak that way of King Louis,"

This would really be the ideal time to flourish his blade which he doesn't have. Harry is getting threatened with a glass of hot wine.

"Why, have a care," Harry says dryly, eying the wine glass, then letting his gaze drop to the Frenchman's outfit. "Sure thou wouldst not stain thy... finery."

D'Artagnan pauses for a cough, sets down the wine with a glare, "For my king's honor, I would give my life."

"Would! Speak not to me of would--I did die to see a usurper fall."

That was not the retort he expected and D'Artagnan crosses himself, "You died in battle?"

Perhaps even an Englishman can be honorable.

--okay, well, being impressive is just about as good as a fight. And given that he's feeling more than a bit woozy, possibly preferable. Not that he's going to let on!

He does sneeze a couple times before answering, though.

"I did, but 'tis no devilry brings me before you." He saw that cross. "Art new come to this place? Know you not the dead do walk as if they lived indeed?"

Edited 2017-03-18 06:10 (UTC)

(OOC: I should sleep but these two are great, until tomorrow.)

"I have no memory of coming here but woke in a bedroom that wasn't my own. But the dead walk yet no devils are involved? What manner of place is this?"

He also is not feeling fully himself, he doesn't like this weakness.

Edited 2017-03-18 06:14 (UTC)

[ooc: yesss, they're great]

"Dost sneer upon my nation, accuse me of devilry, and wouldst have me grant thee patient answers?" Harry retorts. Listen, he has a headache, he doesn't want to have to give the welcome speech to this fancy-looking Frenchman. He has a strange and feverish recollection of feeling very calm-- of placing some value on seeming unruffled. But that must have been a dream. He certainly doesn't feel that way now.

"Would you care to fight?"

D'Artagnan can do that, he doesn't have a sword but he has fists and its good for getting over odd conversational moments.

Harry narrows his eyes. He rubs his nose with his sleeve. Is this a joke?

"--very well."

After all, he can't exactly say no, can he. That would be cowardly. And it's by consent! Security can't get mad!

D'Artagnan bows to him and then coughs again, "Then lead the way to where we may safely fight, Englishman."

...Harry kind of likes this guy. In a stop-calling-me-Englishman-or-I'll-punch-your-French-face kind of way.

"Then follow, and I will lead." The man has no sword, of course, but they can do without.

As he starts for the back door: "--what is your name?"

"D'Artagnan of Gascony and yours?" Conversations like this are probably why Bar wouldn't give him a sword.

"Sir Harry Percy, of Northumberland," he replies. He leads them to a relatively secluded spot on the lawn, tucked away around the side of the bar. "Will this serve?"

"Yes, it will and no guards will come upon us?" He's had that experience and doesn't wish to repeat it.

"We fight out of the common way, and by consent," Harry says. "They can make no complaint."

"That is fair of them," If only the ones in Paris were so fair minded.

"Some there are who prove less than just," Harry concedes darkly. "But we do observe the very letter of the law."

D'Artagnan bows to Harry, "Then shall we begin?"

Harry breaks into a grin. "O, ay, let's."

He'll let the Frenchman make the first move. Because he's courteous like that.