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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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.