milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

A stool shifts slightly. That's pretty much all that happens. Just a slight shifting across the wooden floor, as if something climbed up it, and then a small, gruff voice says, "Whiskey, ya' scuggan!"

Rob Anybody doesn't trust anything he can't see, but that won't stop him getting whiskey anyway.

He adds, "Verra' verra' strong whiskey!"

A glass appears, full of brown liquid--a tiny, tiny shot glass.

"Bigger!"

The glass grows larger, but still isn't normal size.

"Bigger!"

Now it's a normal size glass. The Feegle should be appeased...

"Bigger!"

The glass gets bigger, and then the whiskey disappears. Like that.

"More whiskey!" And it goes on...

Interact if you dare.

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A glass of whiskey appears to be emptying itself. Whiskey does not empty itself. Of this, Smeagol is sure. Clearly he has been smoking too much. This does not mean he will stop.

He does stare, though.

"Crivens! What are ye starin' at, ya scuggan!" a voice declares.

Smeagol spots the little blue man and raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"I don't know," he says, quite honestly. "What am I looking at?"

"M' a pictsie," he says simply.

"Oh," says Smeagol. A hallucination. Maybe he should stop smoking.

"Never heard of one."

"Good," Rob says. Feegles didn't like the bigjobs to noticed them. Though for a bigjob, this one was small. A dwarf, mebbe?

"What're ye?" he asks.

"I'm -"

He stops. He was about to say "one of the River-folk," but they made it pretty clear that he wasn't welcome among them anymore, once. He stopped belonging to that family a long time ago.

And then he changed too many times, and now he's not sure what he is anymore.

He shrugs. "I'm something."

"Aye, so'm I. So'm I." Rob orders another whiskey. "S'good to know what something ye are, though, ya ken?" he says. "I'm unna the Nac Mac Feegle!"

He looks thougthful, which for a Feegle, is such an intense expression it looks more like one of constipation.

"Ye need somethin' like that to say. And a cry for the battles, like--" He jumps to his feet and says the following in a hoarse yell: "We will'nae be fooled again!"

"I don't care," he lies. "I think I'm the only kind of something I am left, anyway." He vaguely suspects that something was wrong with that sentance, but he's never troubled himself much with grammar.

He answers absent-mindedly at the thought of a battle-cry. "No, that lets them know you're there. It's easier just to sneak up from behind and throttle them without making any noise. It keeps them from being able to -"

And then he abruptly realizes that he's incriminating himself, and looks slightly panicked.

"Not that I've done that!" he lies.

Rob looks at him quizzically. "Ye should care. And what kind o' fight is one where there isn' a fight? Ye have to hit them head on."

"I don't know. Not a fight, I guess. I've heard. Do you like fish? I can get fish."

Piscine changes of subject are usually a sign of panic.

"I like ships better," Rob says in answer, drinking more whiskey. "Naught better than roasted ship."

Smeagol frowns. "You eat boats?"

"No! Nae boats. Ships.," Rob corrects him. "They go 'baaa.'"

"Oh. Sheep. The big people mostly had those."

"Yer big. D'you have any?"

"No, I'm - well, I'm bigger than you, but big folk are bigger than me, see?

We didn't keep sheep. Least, my grandmother didn't, and she ran things, but my second cousin, he - Well. I didn't have any."

He exhales a cloud of smoke.

"Why are ye so wee for a bigjob? Did ye get squashed?" Rob asks curiously.

Smeagol frowns. "I'm not a bigjob, and I'm not squashed. I'm tall for my age."

And he is. Four feet is nothing to sneeze at.

"Ye are and ye aren't. And I'm goin' now--the kelda might be wantin' me. He is temporarily distracted by a conversation with Diane and then he leaves.

[OOC: There can be only one thoosand!]

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