milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

He bursts through the door, flying with the--

Oh gods, are you bored or something? I can't just be sitting and having my dinner like a rational human being in the bar?

[ooc: No. You've got to have a hook so people will tag you.]

What if I don't want anyone tagging me? I mean, how many times have we had this discussion? Really? I'm not interesting, you know. I'm just talkative and unlucky and bitter.

[ooc: But you ARE interesting!]

I'm much more interesting breathing, my dear. And all of your 'interesting' ideas tend to get me chucked into zombie-infested landscapes of ruin and social inequality--

[ooc: Or end up with you rich and comfortable and with everything your heart desires! Give props where they're due, man.]

Yes, well, you also took all of that away, you idiot.

[ooc: At least I let you access your bank accounts]

Nonsense. My idea entirely. You had nothing to do with it.

[ooc: Po... look at what you just said.]

...

Shut up.

[ooc: HA! FINALLY!]

Shut up!

[ooc: *cough*smirk*cough*]

Oh just get on with it.

[ooc: AHEM]

Oh, don't rub it in.

[ooc: I'm just being as mature about it as you normally are.]

The gods save me from you.

[ooc: They haven't yet.]

I give a weary wave.

[ooc: So, anyway...]

...I'm sitting, eating my meal in a boring enough manner. It's roast beef, succulent enough even if the flavor is somewhat lost due to the circumstances. I find myself randomly glaring at the ceiling during my meal, but this is not exactly an uncommon occurrance.

That being said, I'm enjoying the wine anyway. Perhaps a little too much, but screw it. Come by if you like or she'll never show up. Show off. Show down. Up. Shut off. Up. Shut up.

Shut up.

Whatever.

[ooc: *snerk*]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lawrence is some distance down the bar nursing a cup of tea and a curious look towrds the man eating his roast beef.

It's nothing particularly interesting, but Lawrence is looking for something to entertain himself.

So he's smiling.

The gods save me from fools and monsters. They're the only ones who tend to get interested in a man such as myself. I wonder absently which one this poor sod might be before raising an eyebrow in his direction.

"I'm not good Quest fodder. Just so that you know."

He arches his brow back.

"I assure you that I have no such plans, young man. My quest is my own." And it's been taken to an irritatingly political level that can't be solved with guns.

It's odd.

"You have the stink of heroic narrative all over you," I reply honestly. Handsome, no doubt brave... though I must say there's something in the eyes that speaks of a higher level of intelligence than I was used to in the type. "However, I can guarantee you that as much as I might look like sidekick material, I would no doubt cause you're untimely and no doubt unforseen demise in a freak sports mascot-flaming car accident or" and I tilt my head and get a good look at his clothes, "something unfortunate to do with the wrong end of a camel."

"Perhaps I should shower in cowardice? Have you any on you?"

He arches a brow. "Perhaps I should repeat what I've said a tad slower, young man? My quest is my own." And there's a pause. "I would not want such a whiny sidekick, at any rate." An amused little smirk. "But do continue assuming that you know who I am, please."

"Plenty," I reply, almost chipper. You cannot offend me by calling me a coward mostly because I'm well aware I am one. Besides, I don't find the title one to be ashamed of. Whoever commented on a coward's thousand deaths probably wasn't nearly immolated by a freakish horny undead midget when they tried to do the 'right thing'. "However, being as it's served me well, you'll have to go find your own. Call me selfish. It's a tick."

I wave off his insults. He hasn't heard whiny until he's traveled with my sister for months on end, or heard Sharee on a bender.

"And every hero's quest is his own until he needs someone to act as a human shield."

I look him in the eye, glad of the clear storm grey color of them. I'm always able to give such a good look with them. They really are the only one of my features I could say I like.

"Do tell me, though I admit that I don't know who you are, about how no one has ever died for your ideals? And how you've always saved everyone who's ever fought in your name? And please, take your time in discussing the utter lack of widows and orphans left behind? Or should I say corpses? It's always hard to read. I'd really like to know about your 'quest'."

He is thinking, now. This is never good. "I do admit that I've never met any widows and orphans, but do not assume that I am naive, young man. I have not saved everyone who has fought in my name. I have shot them, killed them to save them from our enemies, but they have died nonetheless. The army that I once fought for is a fraction of what it was and it is quite my fault that the haven't gotten what they have deserved."

There's a pause. "My quest is my own now. Others have joined me and have left, the smart ones. The rest are dead. The two grandest boys of my acquaintance are dead quite by my hand. You would like to know about my quest.

"Once, there was a land of people who were disjointed and confused, and a man named Feisal who wished for them to be together. We had an agreement that I broke, of my own naievity and the belief that the British government would not lie. And now I am making every attempt to correct this and earn back what little scrap of respect I believe such a noble man might have had."

He smokes.

"One," I tick off, tapping a finger, "I don't really want to know about your quest. I've heard about enough of them and I should think the fact that I said I wanted nothing to do with it should have indicated I don't give a flying pork product about the entire affair."

"Two," another finger, and I'm looking at him now, "I'm willing to give you brownie points for admitting you're just another butcher with a hopeless dream."

"Three," yet one more, "never trust the British when there's land at stake. That's right up there with 'never go up against an Sicilian when death is on the line' and 'the farmboy never actually dies'."

And I put my hand down and smile at him.

"Once you've conquered more than half of the known world, come back and we'll talk, all right?"

I'd pat him on the head if it wasn't a nuisance.

"Arabia is a good portion of the known world." He pauses.

"And I do not plan for it to be hopeless." It's true - Feisal will be placed as king of Arabia, his brother will be placed as head of another small Saudi state. The British will give.

He just doesn't know this yet. It's to come next year, not this one. But he's more determined than ever.

Which might explain why when he looks up, the door is ... there.

It wasn't there before. But he's grinning now, despite what Po says. "Oh, I am a butcher." He'll admit that.

"Didn't doubt it for a moment."

"But not British."

He is very adamant about that. He eyes Po's roast beef a bit disdainfully.

"Must you eat that?" ~~Do disregard any mention of him eating meat as the mun has forgotten up until now about the vegetarian..~~

"Will the secret police come and take me away if I don't? No." And I take another bite. "Am I going to stop because you have an issue with good beef? No."

Chew. Suck that, Hero Mc Heropants. Or robes, as the case may be.

"Well, they might. You never know with this place, do you?" He orders a whiskey from the bar and takes a lazy sip of it.

A smile. "It's not so much the beef, really." Pause.

"As much as I'm sure you don't care - you can call me Lawrence, if you wish."

"Isn't it?"

I raise an eyebrow in his direction.

"And you'll excuse me if I'll eat what I like. I grew up eating table scraps from tables far dirtier than this and that was only after the dogs were done with them.

"Lawrence."

I'm not offering my name unless he asks for it.

He's not one to ask for names. He's fairly sure he only knows Parker's because Mal told him.

He raises his own back. "Well, it's all meat in general, really. But I do understand about not being picky."

Lawrence was a very odd child who liked to take long expeditions without food or water.

You'll excuse me for staring at the narration. But I am. That last line especially.

...ahh, slumming. The universal annoyance of the genuine pauper. Good to see that the heroic were still up to it.

"No, I'm almost certain you don't."

To be fair, it was outside of grade school.

And they did run rather low on food during the revolt. Cactus is not very tasty, especially when you can't find very much of it.

But he's not arguing. It seems like a less-than-smart idea.

You're learning.

"Oh, I'm sure you've had moments of horrible tragedy and times where things were tight or hard and others when you were sure the lot of you might starve... but you're entirely unfamiliar with a long, dull, utterly unhappy life of little accomplishment and torturous, unsung tragedy."

"I suppose I am."

He sips his drink quietly, observing this other man with a curiously arched brow. Are you sure he's not whiny?

"Good to hear you acknowleding it. One up on Tacit already."

I'm not whiny; I'm just endlessly bitter and a little drunk. And speaking of, I take a sip from my wine.

"I'm not preaching, you understand, but you did start with the eyeing and everything. I'm nothing if not a reactive sort. Not really proactive, if you catch my meaning."

Lawrence laughs.

"It is true that I have an unfortunate habit of eyeing people. It is not, however, a habit I plan to fix anytime soon. There are other things that take presidence over it."

"Like getting your grand destiny fixed. And by 'fixed', I mean 'castrated'."

I look him in the eye.

"I'll be flat with you, Lawrence. I come from the bottom rung of the lowest ladder in the filthiest puddle of muck in the dirtiest sewer of society. And down there? We really just want a meal for the next day and a scrap of something to pull over ourselves when we sleep. For the majority of the world, things go better if they keep going the way they are and no one stirs up the shit. You? Are no doubt a champion shit-stirrer. I?"

And I take a long sip from my wine.

"Am a retired shit-stirrer. And you can call me 'young man' all you like, but you're a fool if you think of me as one."

"Well, one does have to retire at some point, I should assume. But I am not Finished yet." He pauses.

"I call most people young man by convention and habit, rather than if they are genuinely...young men."

Lawrence does admire the fact that Po is being honest about things.

"Not enough dead people yet?"

Sip.

"Not enough dead British politicians."

Smoke.

I can't help the snort. Really.

"There will never be enough dead politicians."

Or heroes.

"I suppose."

He shrugs.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only