milliways_bar | Happy Hour

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Happy Hour

It's only his second visit to the strange tavern, but that doesn't stop the sentient bar from from delivering a request via napkin when Aragorn arrives and quietly orders an ale. Unsure whether it would be wise to deny the wishes of a magical ... piece of furniture, the ranger soon finds himself behind the counter, hesitantly paging through a drinks book provided free of charge. The board behind him bears a simple inscription:

Specials
Ale - Half off

He'll just continue reading until someone orders.

[ooc: Mun begs slowtime and will pick up tags, including any new ones, in the morning.]

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Sam's had a long day in the forge and the man behind the counter actually looks like he could be from the Old Kingdom,

"An ale, please?"

Well, he is. The really old kingdom, still in it's Third Age. Aragorn nods, setting the book aside and straightening up to draw a pint of ale from one of the taps, then sets it in front of Sam.

"Here."

"Thank you. I don't think I've seen you here before. Are you new to Milliways?"

Before Sam drinks, he wipes some of the forge grime off his hands and then takes a long drink.

There's a brief shake of his head.

"No, I have been here once before."

"I'm Sameth of the Old Kingdom. I hope Milliways has been a pleasant place for you."

"Strider."

Beat.

"Not unpleasant."

Sam takes another drink and smiles, it doesn't quite hit his eyes,

"That sentiment I can understand."

"Many can."

He'll just retake his seat.

"Its a complicated place,"

Even the simple things tend to get tricky at some point or another.

"That is life."

He's not much of a chatty type unless there's a good reason.

Sam shrugs, that's true but he does think that Milliways adds other problems to normal life.

Aragorn would possibly argue it merely expands one's frame of reference.

Maybe.

It does at that and Sam doesn't want to keep the man if he wishes to do other things.

So he pulls out some of his notes and starts sketching, Jenks' sword is bothering him, it just isn't coming together exactly how he'd like.

It's not so much that Aragorn has pending activities, but he is not in the habit of casual conversation at this point in his life if it does not serve a specific purpose.

He will, however, keep an eye on Sam's drink and refill it if requested.

Soon Sam is deep in his work and remembers to drink sometimes, the Charter Marks on the paper shift and move in gold tones.

Also if Aragorn notices the page, Sam's not really hiding it, there are various swords on it. He needs to figure out what Aegnor's sword will looks like.

Ellen hasn't changed out of her armor since arriving at the Bar, so the young woman who peers up at the specials board is clad in quite a lot of metal. Her hair is short and steel-grey, and she's got a few scars here and there. "All right," she says. "Could I get an ale, please?"

Aragorn catches the unusually built armor from the corner of one eye, and is thusly paying attention when she orders. Once he's retrieved a mug of ale and set it down in front of her, he gestures to her ensemble.

"What is that made of?"

"Oh- riveted steel plates, for the most part," Ellen says. "Some ceramic elements in a few places, and there's a lighter metallic undermesh and a bodysuit below that. It's come in useful a few times."

It looks almost like something a dwarf might experiment with, although those who live under the earth might take a dislike to his assumption.

"Well protected against enemy blows." He assumes.

"And claws," Ellen agrees, indicating one of the places where it was more trouble than it was worth to completely repair a gouge. "You can't be too careful traveling in the Wastes. Is armor common where you come from?"

Some of the people here have given her weird looks for it.

"And claws. Not in that style," he gestures to hers, "but yes."

As long as its serviceable, the looks probably shouldn't matter.

Ellen nods. "I used to have a lighter suit," she says, "but that one... well, there are things that can tear through armor out there."

And she's going into one of their main nesting sites soon. Good Lord.

"This one was a lucky find."

"Try and get the best you can," Aragorn agrees, grimacing at the thought of something capable of tearing through what she's wearing now.

He's not going to comment on the find, because asking where the previous owner is would be a wee bit rhetorical.

Ellen nods and remembers to actually pick up the ale about now. It's not bad- reminds her of the stuff she got from Gene Hunt. (Or possibly Gus at some point, she's not really clear.)

One of these days she's going to have to find out how to make the stuff. All the beer back home is awful.

It's a time honored process of trial and error, perfected over many generations of a lot of cultures.

"Let me know if you want more."

"Thank you," says Ellen. "Um- I should probably pay first."

The pouch on her belt clinks properly, but it's not gold or any other precious metal that she shakes out. Painted, colorful bits of metal, more like- unless Aragorn is somehow familiar enough with bottlecaps to recognize them. She counts out seven of the flattened discs and passes them across the Bar.

"That's usually enough for a pint."

He is not, and picks one up to study, holding it close to his face and running the bottom of his thumb against the periphery. After a moment, he sets it back down with the others before scooping them all into a palm and depositing them in the till.

"Thank you, milady."

Ellen opens her mouth, thinks for a moment, closes her mouth; then she shrugs. "I... you're welcome," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm still a little- I only just recently got made a Knight, I'm not used to the forms of address. I'm not trying to be rude, I promise."

Aragorn merely smiles and affects a brief bow. As he understands it, through Bar's translation, Knights are highly skilled warriors, and if she is one, he will give the proper respect.

"Apologies are not necessary."

"Thank you," says Ellen. "I appreciate it."

It's the sort of thing that makes her kind of glad Paladin Tristan is sending her out on her own with just Fawkes and Dogmeat. Brotherhood protocol doesn't seem to be too formal, but it's still something she hasn't entirely learned yet and really doesn't want to get wrong.

There really is no wrong way to behave, other than disgracing one's self in battle or acting the part of a craven coward, inflicting cruelty on those weaker than you.

Well, okay, Aragorn has protocol to follow.

"You are very welcome."

It should be fairly obvious that his next customer is a little impaired already--no, not that way, he's just blind. But as little trouble as he has navigating from the stairs to the bar itself, he's not going to be able to read that specials board without a little help.

"Help a dead guy out, huh?"

Aragorn watches his approach from about halfway across the bar floor, although he doesn't want to make an assumption that might turn out to be wrong. However, when the man requests help -- well, that's his duty as barkeep.

"The ale is half price, should you choose it."

Jacob considers this, and after a second shrugs lightly. "Sure. Could go with that."

He makes no mention of his handicap, though his fingers restlessly beat the bartop in a lazy tattoo of one-two-three-one-two-three, fingers splayed like he's playing a piano.

Aragorn performs his duty - selecting a mug and pouring out the required measurement of ale, then sets it down with a little more noise than perhaps is necessary.

"Please, enjoy the drink."

He takes a sip, saying nothing about the thud of the mug against the wood near his fingertips for a minute.

"Know many blind guys?"

Aragorn shrugs, although his customer will not see it. "One or two. Sometimes things happen through no fault of our own."

"'Tis certainly safer than rangering, though I do wonder what your chosen lady will think of it." The words are light and teasing, the tone practically dulcet.

The elf? Just looks impish.

Aragorn's eyes widen very briefly, and he bows to the elf standing across the bar from him. What lady Glorfindel mentions he does not know, although the narration mentions he has not yet met the Lady Arwen, and may perhaps look younger than 'normal'.

"Lady Bar bid me to serve drinks. I thought it best to comply, my lord."

"It certainly does no good to anger her." Glorfindel agrees, leaning negligently against the Bar. "Is there no wine to be had, Estel?" With the Bar not filling orders he has precious little hope for Dorwinion, but still... a fair wine is better than a good ale.

"I had suspected." He crouches down to look at the alcohol stores under the counter, and after a few minutes of searching comes up with a wine deemed tolerable for a Noldor's palate, and pours a decent amount into a more delicate glass for him.

"It is not brewed by your people, but it may suffice."

"Neither is Dorwinion, but they do well enough.". Glorfindel replies, examining the wine with an air of someone who knows what he's about.
"It is passing fair, better than some." He allows after due consideration. "Get something for yourself as well, Estel, it is good to see a familiar face, here." He's seen more people he knows here in the past few days than he has in the past few months, or years.

"I'm on duty." The tone is dry, but laced with a bit of subtle humor. "But thank you all the same."

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Happy Hour

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