milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOM: The tradition of a lifetime takes on a whole new meaning.]

Darius is very much subdued when he comes into the bar today, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he ends up here rather than in the Hob. He can't stand walking into another room where every single inhabitant hates him on sight.

He walks up to the bar, not sure immediately what it is that he wants.

Eventually, though, he asks, "Could I get some white liquor?"

He could stand to kill a few brain cells. He's drinking to forget today.

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"The one that wins, is it?" Poins says. "What shall be done to him?"

"Gets to be Victor. Never has to work again. 'Cept they have to train the other tributes," Darius explains.

"There must be a word," Poins says, "that justly condemns how truly bad your world is, how devoid of grace; alas, I know it not, so cannot utter it in sympathy."

Darius shrugs. He's known no other world, so he has nothing to compare it to.

"But it is very bad," Poins adds, a bit helplessly.

He's not normally so sympathetic or so earnest; but that man's world seems rotten beyond compare!

"Nothing's perfect," Darius says, frowning.

He hardly needs the reminder.

"But often, things seem perfectly messed-up," Poins says, shaking his head.

"Yeah, we've got a bit of that," Darius admits.

"Not just a bit," Poins says, "such a great heap of it, it seems, that it is near perfection."

Darius glares at him. "Thanks for the reminder."

"I would buy you a drink, then, to forget," Poins offers.

"Can't say no to that," Darius says, holding up his nearly empty glass and finishing it off.

"Lady Bar, please serve this man another," Poins says, and the drink appears.

"Thanks," Darius mutters, taking a sip.

At this rate, he'll be unconscious and not have to think of anything at all.

"Sometimes, a man can only smash his mind into a keg of wine," Poins says. "Enjoy!"

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Lady Bar, just give the man a bottle, would you?" Poins says, and one appears.

He reckons he'll pay his tab later. Or drag Hal here and get him to pay for them both.

Darius looks at the bottle. With the way these few glasses have affected him, he's pretty sure drinking all that would kill him.

"You want some?" He tilts the bottle toward Poins unsteadily.

"Why not?" Poins says. "It's not that it would kill me; I have too hard a head, trained to vile drink."

Darius nods and another glass appears. He pours a generous measure and slides it over.

"What's your name, anyway?"

Poins takes it and drinks.

"Brrr!"

Pause.

"No, that's not my name, that was the liquor speaking," he adds. "I'm Edward Poins, Ned for short, or Poins, if you would rather."

"Ned," Darius says, almost laughing a little. "Ned," he repeats, trying it out.

"'m Darius."

"A much less common name than mine!" Poins says. "Tom, Dick and Harry; Francis, Ned, and John -- you call out those, and three quarters of all the men in London will answer."

Pause.

"But Darius, just like the Persian king of old, sorely defeated by the great Alexander: that is rare!"

"Is it? Was just thinking the same about yours."

He really doesn't know about Persian kings, but you're more likely to run into a Darius in District Two than a Ned.

"You don't have Neds where you are from?" Poins laughs. "That is a sad state of affairs. Neds do make life better, if I say so myself."