milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Everyone's heard this one before: an elf walks into a bar...

It is a joke with, as they say, very little class and as such does not bear repeating. He steps in, dusts off his armor, looks around, and shrugs.

Ferelden is a very strange country indeed. But, this is of little concern to him. The room is ripe for conversation, pockets ripe for picking, and drinks ripe for consuming. Where is the harm in any of these things? It makes for a thirsty day's work, almost getting killed over and over, and even assassins (and especially those sworn to serve their former enemies) deserve their fun.

It might take a moment or two before he appreciates that this is not, in fact, the tavern he was expecting.

[OOC: Rebooted character, different player. If you have questions, see this post.]

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"Nor where I am but they are here. Thank you," He takes the drinks from the rat and takes a sip of his as he offers the other glass to Zevran.

"That's a good place to begin for it's how genetics work at their simplest, who we are is determined by our parents' traits. In my time, we have been able to look at the small cells within us that hold that information. My interest is looking at how mutation or unexpected changes can become steps forward to new possibilities."

At least as curious as he is intelligent (or perhaps that should be stated the other way around), he nods and listens, takes the offered glass, and as subtly as possible tests its scent for poison. It smells strong but clean, and if he is going to go, he prefers to be done in by a poison he has never met before than by one he should have recognized.

In a moment, he will actually taste the... this scotch, that is what it was called. It reminds him of a simple whiskey, by sight and scent.

But...

"Just a moment, my educated friend. What do you mean by in my time?"

"Your time, your world, it appears that people come in here from quite different places. The place I currently live is called Oxford in the country of England,"

It's one of the parts of Milliways that Charles finds intriguing, how varied the starting places of all the patrons are and they seem to find it accepted to not know of where someone's from.

It's instinct as much as anything, the way he stiffens at the news.

"And this does not concern you?"

It does him.

Very much: he gives the door a glance that, while not anxious, is disturbed. Moments ago he was wandering through... oh, some bucolic and typically unhappy town, and he opened the door to this?

It is unthinkable.

And here he was thinking Charles merely sounded like the average Fereldan human.

"It did at first but I've observed how it's clearly accepted here. Your own world is still behind your door and according to what I've been told you won't have lost any time since you've been here,"

Now he's wants to know more and finds it exciting. He prefers to learn and adapt when the world is unexpected.

"Forgive me if I am mistaken." He sets the glass down untouched, sensing a degree of madness. "You told me, did you not, that you were also new to this place? How long have you had to observe it?"

Yes, he hears madness and that is something he has little desire to indulge in.

"Half a day at this point. If you don't believe me, open your door and see. I'm a scientist and always recommend what you can observe over what anyone might tell me,"

He just has the advantage of reading minds so he has been able to pick up on how surprisingly trusted Milliways is, while still confusing to its patrons.

He has heard the stories of human mages unable to bear the threat of demonic possession -- pity, that, there is something to be said for every experience -- who have their emotions stripped away. What is the word? Tranquil, yes, that's it. It has been a long time since he set foot in the Chantry for any purpose other than looting or seduction. He tries to keep his killing outside those grand wooden doors, but cannot always succeed.

Regardless, that is what this Charles reminds him of: a mage who has been made tranquil. And more's the pity, he likes to challenge what he has been told and yes, it would be only too easy to prove things to himself. Likely he will before long; every story has an ending. But for now, he has one more question to put forth.

"My door? Why do you call it my door? Is it not a part of this establishment?"

Charles takes a drink as he ponders how being tranquil could be bad, managing his emotions is something he has to do to keep control of his mind,

"Yes, but everyone's door leads to another world. The normal syntax seems to be calling it the Front Door in general but when speaking of passing to and from one world, then it becomes someone's door."

Enough: he has had more than enough of this childish runaround. No fool, he: there is no door in existence that leads to another world, unless one willingly steps into the Fade. That is most certainly something he prefers not to do, although his weaponry would work as readily there as anywhere else.

Standing, he draws out his dagger. If need be, the sword will follow. Every establishment has a front door; this one is no different. With confident strides, dagger in hand, he moves to the door and with equal confidence, pulls it open, and steps through.

"Oh, look," he hears in a droll monotone. "The assassin's back."

"Try not to be so overjoyed, my road-weary friend." It is, as they say, business as usual and for a short time, at least, he gives the tavern little more thought.

As Zevran stands and then draws his weapon, Charles goes quite still.

That wasn't the reaction he was hoping for, but he was honest and told all he knew. He watches Zevran go and takes a drink before making some more notes.

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