milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Ah so, here is the recovering alcoholic hippie, in the bar, at a booth, with real food. Yeah, totally. He's eating it very, very slowly, but he does have what appears to be a ham sandwich. And tea.

And a really big, really old book, compliments of ~~Nearly Wristless Rod~~ Roderick Usher.

He is also playing with a spoon, twirling it in one hand lazily.

Please annoy.

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"You're not. I'm just a ghost, that's what I do."

Mordred...isn't quite sane right now. It's a ghost thing.

Miniver could understand that. Roderick isn't usually sane, either.

"Oh. Dead. Hey, that blows, man. So many dead people around here... probably lucky I got out of the world before it got me, too."

"It has some perks. If you are a ghost, you can scare people."

"I bet." Mordred gets eyed nervously. "Bet you can get front-row seats to all KINDS of fun things, too."

"Well, there is that, as well."

Shiftily mischevious smile.

"I wonder," he says, half to himself, "if some of the less corporeally-bound individuals around here keep books and trade stories, like in the butlers' club in the Jeeves stories. Shoot. The ghosts and fairies must know all KINDS of kinky stuff..."

"...you know, I've never asked."

"I bet." Smirk. "So why were you watching me, anyway?"

"Actually, I have no idea. I just...drift."

"...Isn't that kinda sad?" he asks, all sympathy. "I mean, just... drifting?"

He would know.

A soft laugh that contains no humour.

"Aye. It's one word for it."

[ooc: and sadly, I have to run! I should be back in a few hours, though, so slowtime?]

[Slowtime's love! :D]

Miniver frowns.

"Do ghosts drink tea? I can get you another cup..."

"My brother has managed to make me drink the stuff." He sounds...well, better. A little rueful.

"There's no tea where you come from?" Gasp! "Not even Lipton?" Which, almost anyone will tell you, is more like factory floor sawdust.

"No, there was tea. I just didn't drink it."

"Why?"

This is something incomprehensible to Miniver.

"Did you drink coffee, then?"

"God, no."

Miniver ponders this.

"Wine?"

"Sometimes. Ale, mostly."

"I've read about that. Even tried some, once, but I think it was really bad quality." He sighs. "I miss booze." His voice trapses upon the thin line nearly crossing into whining.

Raises.

Eyebrow.

"Y'know, the Bar's just there..."

Miniver stares at his teapot morosely.

"Promised Draco I wouldn't. I was in the infirmary for alcohol withdrawal. He'll KILL me if I go back now."

"Aaaaah. Well, good luck on that."

"Thanks." Mope. "So where ARE you from?"

"Britain. Died 517 AD, came in here...2000 and something."