milliways_bar | (no subject)

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zelgadiss

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When the door next opens, it lets in a gust of hot, dry air, full of sand and grit. It also lets in a tall, thin, chimera who hasn't seen this place in weeks, and who is, strangely enough, vaguely glad to see it.

At least the bar will offer a break from Lina and Gourry's incessant whining about food - as though constantly describing what kinds of food they'd like to eat at the moment helped anyone else with their own hunger. He was sure he wasn't alone in wishing they could alight upon a topic that would offer a distraction from their lack of food, rather than accentuating it. It only made things worse.

Lina would, of course, smite him for having hidden food from her, were he to smuggle food back to the group. So it's without guilt that Zelgadiss crosses to the Bar, takes a seat, and orders a large glass of water and a meal big enough for three people, all for himself.

Though... maybe he'll take some back for Amelia.

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That is a lot of food for just one person. Rachel, sitting nearby and still struggling with the oragami book, blinks.

And hey, she'd comment, really she would, except one of her closest acquaintances reacted badly when she made a joke about stale bread and found out most people in his world are starving to death.

She tries to hold her tongue with newcomers these days.

The rock-skinned man eats steadily, but not with haste. He pauses every so often to drink from the glass of water, which is refilled twice before the meal is done.

He's left his sword at his side and his hood up, mostly hiding the pale lavender, wire-like hair under the dusty, travel-worn cloth.

When the chimera finishes his meal, he thanks the Bar.

It's easy not to stare, except for one thing: all the distinctly inhuman-in-appearance creatures she's ever met were... well, not human. In Milliways, it seems, you can never quite be certain.

So there are more looks his way than she'd normally be offering, frowning curiously while she struggles with her paper.

She can't see much of him anyway, and what she can could very well be a trick of the light. Besides, no one starts a conversation with 'Hey, you look weird,' and for very good reason.

It would not be wise to start a conversation like that. Especially in Milliways.

And especially not with this individual.

He might* take it the wrong way.

Zelgadiss settles to finish his water little by little, almost relaxed apart from the tension between his shoulder blades. He can never truly relax around so many people, strangers. He thinks he feels their eyes even when consciously he knows they likely aren't staring. Milliways is different.

After the water is gone, there is wine. Zel puts his hood back and stands to look for a less centrally-located seat. The firelight glints on the wire-like hair and the smooth pebbles set into the stone skin.

* He will take it the wrong way.

Huh.

Of course, there are aliens that look vaguely humanoid, and some people she's met have talked about ghouls, mutants. All sorts of things, some even human if drastically altered.

The cloak he's wearing, however, is dirty, dusty, and a little ragged at the hem. She can accept his general appearance, even ignore the belt on his hips, but unkempt outerwear? Oh no.

Which is why she's likely frowning at him if he happens to glance her way.

It's almost as though he can feel the weight of her gaze on him, but more likely it is that he saw the shine of her eyes as their gaze took in his appearance, out of the corner of his eyes.

Zelgadiss turns to find a blonde girl, about his age, perhaps, frowning at him.

He looks unconcerned, though the grey lips thin somewhat. "Can I help you?"

Though she shakes her head, Rachel keeps her frown. Even as she lifts her gaze to his.

"I was looking at your-- what is that, a cloak?"

He's sure she wasn't looking at his cloak. There's nothing interesting about it. The attempt to cover her staring at him is pitiful.

"Of course it's a cloak," he replies, lifting an eyebrow.

Rachel lifts her eyebrows and lets silence sits for a beat or two. There's nothing of course about a cloak. Who wears cloaks?

Honestly.

"That's it. I was looking at it. The hem's getting ragged."

Everyone wears cloaks. Well, apart from Gourry. But then, he wears armor.

Zel says, dry and disbelieving that that little detail is what the girl had latched upon, "I'm sure. I'll take it up with the next tailor I come across."

Yeah, in a few hundred miles or so. His feet are really looking forward to that.

"Clothing tears, when you're traveling." And he rarely stops traveling.

The girl, it should be noted, is wearing jeans, sweater, and boots, all extremely well-cut and flattering, professionally (or appearing so) tailored, and in perfect condition.

And even if she weren't living in the building that provides said clothes, she'd be wearing something similar, in similar condition.

For now, she simply shrugs. "Hey, you wanted to know why I was staring, right? I told you."

"Setting aside the fact that staring is rude, why would a plain traveling cloak be worth staring at?"

Rachel frowns, irritation touching her features. "Sorry for being rude, then. And I don't know, maybe because it's plain? If you're using it to travel around then no wonder it's dirty, but I didn't know that, did I?"

"Best use your head for something other than a place to hang a hat," Zel says, dry. "As though anyone with a bit of sense would wear anything but a plain cloak while traveling."

Apart from Lina, but then Lina had always been a special case.

"Bandits don't need any more incentive than they already have."

There's a slight stiffening at her shoulders. That's all the sign Rachel gives of her fury while she places delicate hands on the counter and gets to her feet. Her height at five-foot-eight is not especially impressive.

The look of silent rage in her eyes is slightly more so.

"Listen, pal," she says quietly, "maybe you hadn't noticed but you stepped into a pan-dimensional bar a little while ago. On a given day, I can meet anyone from junior high students on Earth to pretty much the equivalent of a demi-god so maybe, just maybe, you should realize how utterly insignificant you are and that maybe, just maybe I won't figure out who you are or what you're doing by looking at your freaking cloak."

She is only a bit shorter than him - only slightly - but he fails to be impressed. He's been raged at by some of the best. Zel's dry look stays put.

"Insignificant?" he asks, calmly, smirking. "You were the one staring at me, not the other way around. All I asked for is some common sense from you - you could have answered your own questions without being rude."

His significant hunger and thirst, the gust of gritty, hot wind that had accompanied him in when he opened the door, the dusty, travel-worn appearance, the traveling pack concealed cleverly under his cloak, the well-used sword at his side.

All terribly apparent - if she'd noticed him when he came in, rather than after he'd been eating for a time.

Eyes narrow and flash blue and her hands turn into tight fists, jaw setting in a firm line.

"People will stare at anything when they're bored. So your significance on that end? About equal with a cockroach.

"I apologized for being rude. You're the one insulting me like you've got any right or excuse to do it."

Zel comes from a world where people are observant of people entering their space. If they are not, it is easy to find oneself robbed or killed.

"Don't try to blame your rudeness on me or your inability to keep yourself entertained," Zel says, running a hand back through his hair with a sound like stone grinding across wire. "And don't assume I'm obligated to accept your apology."

He turns, intending to take his wine glass towards the couch by the fire. "And in case you've not been coming here long enough to notice - no one is more or less significant than anyone else, here. We're all just people."

And that's the way he likes it.

Rachel stares at him, mouth slightly open, in pure stunned shock and rage.

Her rudeness?

Her inability to entertain herself?

We're all just people?

"If we're all just people then you've got no more right than anyone else to walk up to someone and start insulting them," Rachel snaps - loud, practically spitting the words in outrage. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Zel shrugs, arms spread wider than they have to be, a slight smirk at her rage hover about his lips. "Hey. I just call things like I see them."

"You were rude to me, for which I was rightly annoyed, and when I explained about the cloak, you insulted me for my trouble, and then you blamed your original rudeness on boredom, taking umbrage when I expressed the wish not to be the object you use to cure your ennui. If we are all just people, we must agree that we all have every right to speak our minds. It isn't a case of having 'no more right' than anyone else; it's a case of having just as much."

Zel maaaaaaay actually be finding this kind of thing refreshing, after too many weeks traveling through the wasteland with Lina and the others.

This is not the rage she'd wanted or missed. It's the sudden, insulted anger from misunderstandings and the frustration of being unable to convince or prove her point. It's someone smirking at her anger and twisting her reactions to suit their purpose.

"Fine," Rachel says - and it's a low growl that doesn't fit in an utterly normal, slender girl. It would be better in a grizzly bear's throat. "You've got the right to be a jackass. Glad you're enjoying it."

She slams the book in front of her closed and stacks the paper on top, dragging it to her roughly, prepared to leave.

Zelgadiss gives her a slight bow over his glass of wine, possibly a bit more flourishy than called for.

"As I am glad you are also taking full advantage of the opportunity."

She snarls - truly snarls as she passes him, heading determinedly for the stairs.

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