milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Ordinarily it would be nice to say that Wells is here because he's got some sort of newspaper to check out, or some book to study up on, or one of those things- but really, he's not. He's here because he can get a good drink and then get outside for a while without feeling like half of London's breathing down his neck. Milliways parcels out people in perfectly acceptable doses, it seems to him. He'll take what he gets tonight.

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Theres a 600 pound panther in the rafters looking down on the human who just entered the bar.

Her tail is swaying back and forth as it hangs a few inches below the rafters.

Possibly it's the tail that gets noticed. Possibly it's something else. Six hundred pounds of panther quite likely has a distinctive scent, right? Wells himself certainly has one; strictly speaking, he smells a good deal more like wolf than any human has a right to...

He looks up, at any rate, and his eyes narrow a bit. "Elizabeth?" he guesses.

The panther tilts her head to the side in confusion.

No patron has ever tried to call her a name before.

Sniffing the air Guen smells the wolf scent coming from him.

Which confuses her even more.

Leaping down from the rafters Guen turns towards Wells staying a respectable distance away from him.

When the beast touches down, Wells shakes his head. "All right, you're not her," he mutters. "You're not a shifter, either, I'd reckon... d'you understand me?"

He's keeping a wary eye on the creature. There were stories back in his England of enormous black cats roaming the countryside, like the old Grims. And there were those records from project ACORN, where they were trying to engineer the panthers...

Guen gives Wells another once over using all available senses, then she dips into an unmistakable bow infront of him.

Rising she looks at him with those bright green eyes that show an intelligence beyond the norm for panthers.

"Ah," says Wells; he's become quite fond of that syllable. Not being all that good at bowing, he instead opts for the gesture of respect he knows best- the salute. "Good t'meet you, ma'am. I'm sure I'd remember if I'd seen you before."

Guen merely nods her acknowledgement of his statement then sits down and gives him a look that says.

::Your not normal either are you?::

Of course panthers can't talk and unless Wells is a telepath hhes gonna have to read all of that in her expression.

Alas, no. He's got about as much telepathic ability as a broomstick. And the only animals whose language he knows are all canids, so that's out, too.

"Been here long?" he asks instead. "Can't say I recognise your smell, unfortunately."

Guen shakes her head in answer to his first question.

"Her name is Guenhwyvar, as for her smell I can't really comment."

Behind Wells stands a 5 foot seven inch figure in a forest green cloak and gleaming silver chainmail.

His shockingly white hair falls to his shoulders where he tucks it behind his pointed ears.

His eyes are a bright glowing purple.

No kidding they are actually glowing.

"Oh, well, I-"

He turns around.

".... right, what world are you from?" is all he can think to say.

"Well hello to your self as well. I am from Faerun, to be precise the Silver Marches."

Drizzt rests his hands on the hilts of a pair of scimitars one on each hip.

His posture is not threating but relaxed.

It's a nice night out. Clear, and not too hot now that the sun's down, and neither the light from the main bar nor the waxing moon are bright enough to blur out the dome of the stars above.

A shadow blots some of the light spilling from the lake door, and then moves on; it's River, emerging from the bar. She moves over the grass in slow barefoot steps, her face tipped up to the night sky.

You don't get nights like this in London. It's rare to get nights like this in Yorkshire, even, although it's a little easier there. Not so many people, nor machines, neither. But really, even the farm country's not much like this, when it comes down to it.

Wells glances over in the direction of the light and the shadow, and smiles.

"Hallo, River."

"Wind's blowing," River says softly. Her voice is just audible above the lapping of the lake.

She glances sidelong at Wells, and smiles back. Just a little.

"Yeah," says Wells, looking out towards the water for a moment. "All sorts of winds."

He's thinking of the dead, still air clinging to Islington about now. And of the winds that went through his clothes like knives, some days back on one of the moons of Jupiter- and maybe some metaphorical winds as well, 'cos for all that he's not good at 'em, even Harry Wells gets philosophical moods sometimes.

River watches his face. It's a paler blur against the darkness, his features half-lit by the glow from the windows some distance away.

"I can go home," Wells says after a bit. "Never thought I'd see the day that'd happen."

He turns over a small stone that was lying loose on the surface of the ground, thinking.

"Dunno what's to come next, really."

River just studies him for a minute, silently. Her face, too, is a pale blur, and sober.

Then, very quietly, "Tomorrow."

He can't help but snort at that. "Suppose you're right," he says. "Never was much good at just takin' things as they came, though. Annie says it's a failing of mine."

"No."

River turns her face to the stars again, watching a thin cloud scud across the moon. The wind is only a breeze down here, but the high sparse clouds are moving fast.

Softer, "Now you can go back. See what was always there. Fit the pieces in the puzzle and rewrite the jigsaw."

"Mmm."

He turns the stone over some more, noticing the feel of it across the backs of his fingers briefly.

"Think I can pull it off?" he asks after a bit. Army life, and missions of vengeance and reparation, don't quite prepare you for the open-ended.

Silence, and the sound of waves. Somewhere across the lake an owl hoots, and falls quiet.

River studies Wells, and slowly her eyes warm in a faint, almost wistful smile.

"It's waiting for you. Right there. Everybody."

Softer, and still with that tiny crooked smile, "Time to find out."

Wells nods. "Fair enough," he says. "Fair enough."

He sets the stone down and rubs at the back of his neck with one hand.

"Your dad's asked me and my wife to dinner with him and your mum, by the way. After the full moon's over."

That, after a moment's surprise, gets a slightly startled grin. River approves, it seems.

"'s gonna be interesting. I've got no fucking clue how I'm gonna get through a whole meal without sayin' 'fuck' once."

"Kào," River suggests.

River is helpful!

".... what's that when it's at home, then?"

"Fuck," River says cheerfully.

Beat.

Just in case he didn't get it, "In Chinese."

"Ah," says Wells. "See, I only learned Cantonese. Same language, different dialect. In Cantonese it's diu."

He's not that undereducated!

Nope. He has a PhD in practical cursing!

"Diu," says River thoughtfully, with an air of storing that away for later use.

Oh yes. Ask him some of the Arabic ones sometime.

"Yeah. Y'got to be more careful in Cantonese. They've got a lot worse words than your dialect, 'cos they're mostly spoken instead of written and all shiny and nice."

River listens with interest.

Swear words are always fun, even if she doesn't use them all that often.

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