milliways_bar | (no subject)

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black rider

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Someone enters from the lake area. He's been absent for a time, but has returned, of course. Nothing can keep him away for long.

He comes in, dapper in a black business suit, and heads towards the bar. Soon, he is comfortably ensconced in one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace, sipping a glass of wine.

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"Well, well, well."

Mary Anne takes a seat opposite him, grinning despite herself. "Here's someone who made himself scarce. What've you been up to?"

He smiles, raising his glass to her. "Business kept me rather frightfully busy for a time."

"What about you, Mary Anne? How have you been filling your hours?"

The grin gets a little wider.

"Oh, this and that. I manage to keep myself occupied."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Have you returned home at all?"

She nods.

"Once, not long after New Year's. Things needed sorting, knife needed breaking in."

"I trust it is well broken in, then?" He smiles.

She laughs. "Very well. Of course, now I have a new knife that needs blooding."

She tilts her head, smiling. "I haven't forgotten my promise, but I'm afraid it'll have to wait a bit longer. I have some...business here that needs taking care of."

It's possible there's something vaguely predatory about her expression.

The Rider inclines his head, smirking slightly. He may fully understand her expression.

Sincerely, "I wish you every success in taking care of your business.*

"Thank you," she says, lowering her lashes but not her eyes.

"I'll be sure to tell you how it goes."

She props her chin on one hand. "What of your business? It was engaging, I hope, if nothing else."

He raises his glass to her in a slight salute. "Please do."

"My business kept me occupied for some time. I expected to find a way out of this place, during it all, but... as you can see, I am still here."

"Pity," she sighs.

"It's never fun when plans don't work out."

He sighs also, gazing out the window towards the lake. Maybe towards that house that wasn't there before January 5th.

"No. Never fun."

She's never asked about the house; funny what you just learn to accept in this place.

She follows his gaze. "Do you know...how that got there?"

"I have not heard the details, no."

She shrugs it off.

"Strange how things show up here."

He smiles thinly. "It is a strange place."

"True enough."

Strange the people (things) you meet; strange the things you'll do for (to) them.

She's quiet for a moment, lost in thought, then flashes a smile. "Was it nothing but business, then?"

His smile breaks into a conspiratory grin. "You wouldn't get them to lock me up if I told you that it was all business, and outside business at that? I have ever found having to avoid breaking that rule to be particularly aggravating."

She leans a little closer, matching his grin.

"Certainly not; not if you don't tell them I have unfinished business inside."

Sincere through his grin.

"I shall never breathe it to another soul, and I shall congratulate you when your business is resolved."

(ooc: Mun must sleep. Slowtime?)

"Thank you, lovely."

The grin is replaced by a disarmingly innocent expression. "And I have no idea of any business of yours--be it inside, outside or upside-down."

[ooc: ditto. slowtime is love. catch ya later, darling!]

He smiles a smile that hints at nothing sinister in the least.

"Of course you don't."

She sits back, grinning slightly.

"It's settled, then. Innocent as babes, the pair of us."

The Rider's smile now hints at a grin.

"Then, as our innocence is settled, might I offer you an innocent drink?"

"You may," she says.

"And I would be happy to accept."

Alcohol is the refuge of the weak-spirited.

So the Prophet teaches, anyhow.

Oats marks his place in the Book of Ossory and stifles a yawn-- then glances up guiltily to see if the fellow caught it.

He shouldn't be bored with scripture.

(Or is he allowed to be, every now and again? Surely Om can't really mind.)

While others still say No power on earth or above the bottomless pit has such influence to terrorize and make cowards of men as the liquor power. Satan could not have fallen on a more potent instrument!

The Black Rider drinks out of respect for a worthy tool.

The yawning priest earns a glance and an understanding smile.

"Sometimes it gets to be a bit much, doesn't it?"

Guilty look out in full force.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Worshiping one's god. It is a heavy burden to bear, at times."

The reddish-haired man tilts his head slightly, the faintest look of... disappointment? on his face. "But one should always give one's best for one's Lord."

Oats flushes.

"It's, ah, only that it's getting a little late, I think," he explains.

Any words would start to blur on the page at this hour.

Really.

He glances at the man curiously.

"Are you by any chance a believer yourself?"

He nods, smiling slightly. Never saying a believer in what.

"I understand about it being hard work to stay focused at such late an hour."

The man pauses, as if unsure whether or not to go on. So many schizms happen that it can be unwise to speak of one's beliefs. Oats would understand, one thinks. The man in black's voice is cadenced oddly; something in its tone is strangely compelling, making one hear that what he says is based upon the soundest of reason and logic.

"One should always give one's best for one's god, so I have found that one best serves the Lord when one is at one's best. If you do not feel as though you would be able to give your god your full adoration and attention, you should wait until you do feel as though you can give your Lord as much as you possibly can."

"If you are tired, you cannot possibly worship your Lord as you should."

Oats tilts his head slightly. He can see the sense in that.

Of course, pipes up the voice once dubbed "Bad Oats," the one that always insists on presenting the other side to every argument, one can't be like that *all* the time. Sometimes one's best isn't ... THE best.

Oats agrees with himself on that.

He thinks.

"Well, I am tired," he agrees. "But ... the Prophet Brutha once stayed awake in constant prayer for twelve straight days."

A pause.

"Not, of course, that I plan to be awake quite that long."

"You would hardly be at your best if you tried." The man smiles. "Best go sleep. Worship when you feel up to it. If you do not feel that you could give your best for your god at a given moment, save your energy for until you do. That way you can worship fully, as you are meant to do."

Of course, that gives unconscious leeway for those days when Oats just... doesn't feel like it, or has other plans, or would rather not be bothered.

(ooc: Mun must sleep soon. Slowtime for the corruption of Mightily Oats?)

Even as he yawns again-- slighter than before, but still embarrassing-- Oats wonders crossly what exactly a stranger can claim to know about Omnianism.

"It's probably a good idea," he admits. "I'll go upstairs after I've finished this chapter."

He smiles, looking almost apologetic. "It's ... something of a ritual, you see."

Some children had bedtime stories.

Oats had the Book of Ossory.

He doesn't know anything about Omnianism, directly, just that most religions stress how best to serve their own particular god.

He smiles, understanding. "Some rituals are good to have."

"Sleep well, when you do."

"Thank you."

Oats isn't sure of ... something. Whether the fellow's really sincere, perhaps-- though of course there's no reason to doubt it. Maybe he's only unsure of himself.

... It really is getting late. He's obviously not thinking clearly.

He gives the young man another smile. Truly sincere. Oats clearly isn't thinking clearly. Clearly.

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