milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Here is a Miniver. He's out of the infirmary, but one might say... not exactly looking spectacular.

He's sprawling more or less in a booth. Possibly he ended up here stopping to rest on his way to his room and forgot to move again. Or something.

There's a little enchanted model dragon skulking around the table and apparently trying to boil the glass of water a rat deposited on the table at some point, which is being ignored in favor of a book, which Miniver is sometimes reading, and sometimes staring off into space distractedly.

Come say hi to the recovering alcoholic.

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"New York wasn't really around during your time, then. But I read about Camelot. It's gone by the time I was born. Sad, really. What's it like?"

"It was big and bright, noisy and real busy. Lots of people, lots of places to explore," he shrugs, staring down at the glass in his hands. "It was home."

"...You can't go back, can you?" Miniver asks, insightfully.

He takes a long drink. "Not unless I want my head chopped off."

Miniver has a lot of GUESSES as to who he might be, but doesn't dare voice any of them after Random's warning about family issues with the Camelot crowd.

"Who are you?" he asks instead.

"Melou."

And then, almost as an afterthought, though it's not, "Mordred's son. One of them, anyway."

LOOK WHO IS TOTALLY NOT GOING AROUND TELLING PEOPLE HE'S KING ARTHUR.

Miniver smiles innocently. "Neat. I'm Miniver. Cheevy. Of no-one-famous fame."

It would, perhaps, be wise not to mention that. Melou is armed, after all.

"Don't think I'm famous. Guess my Father and the rest are. At least I know there's stories about them."

He shrugs again. "What do you do in New York? That anywhere near California?"

The not a good idea to tell people you are King Arthur even though you are clearly some American bum thing keeps coming up, really.

Good thing he only told that fluffy-headed little preacher mage in the infirmary...

"Not really. Same country but like 3000 miles away. West coast, East coast. Never been there. You know someone from that far away?"

"Yeah, my girl's from there. Visited it once," he makes a face again. "Too hot, too weird."

"Weird's where the hippies go. I guess they all think truth and beauty is out West. It makes for pretty poems but I don't think most of them do any better than to get high or knocked up or both. Pity, really. They make such nice words." Sigh. "Who's your girl?"

"Name's Angela. Tall, reddish kinda hair. Pretty." And here's about where he'd make the prerequisite threat about Miniver staying the hell away from her. But somehow, he doesn't think it's necessary.

"What're hippies?"

Not really necessary at all, no.

One would hope the girl has better taste than a twiggy guy who looks like he hasn't showered in a week.

"Hippies," Miniver informs him, "are into peace, drugs, free love, and never having money. The peace I'm okay with. Free love? Great, except it's illegal unless you're talking about one boy and one girl of consenting age in the privacy of their own bedroom behind numerous padlocked doors and as long as they never talk about it or make any implication, by word or gesture, that it might occur again." Jaded much? "And hell, even drugs I'd be okay with. Look at me, I was an alcoholic for twelve years stopping... What day is it? Fuck, I don't know. Haven't been myself lately. Anyhow. It was the money that got me. I found myself rather attatched to being able to pay for a meal, and having a roof over my head, however roach-infested, was more than I'd have otherwise."

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