milliways_bar | (no subject)

And Autor's going to try and skirt right by him while grabbing his asked-for book from the bar. He's seen just about enough hangovers, thanks.

Poins lifts his head, and groans.

"Good morn," he sighs.

Caught, Autor snaps to position, ram-rod straight. He thinks some very unkind things about fate before turning to his friend.

"Hello, Poins," he says softly. Were there ever hangovers in Shakespeare? Autor can't remember. Consequences were more blunt than this. Like death or madness.

"Tsk," he whispers, "how often do you end up like this?"

"At times, when drink has taken me by force upon the eve," Poins says. "And yester night, it was quite powerful."

Right, so it's the drink's fault, Autor thinks unkindly, and then realizes it might just be the man's phrasing.

He sighs and turns to a waitrat. "A thick blanket, a pitcher of water, two cups of sweet tea, and a small plate of katerfrühstück and toast. Please."

Then he wipes his runny nose and sits next to Poins. "Prevention is usually better than a cure, you know," he whispers, smiling small and brittle.

"Thou art sick thyself?" Poins asks. "And ahh, prevention! It means not drinking wine and being merry, and where's the fun in that? I may yet do that when I have grown old."

"Just sniffling," Autor says, and dips his head. "Probably the weather."

He doesn't have much to say about Poins' declaration of love of alcohol, so he fidgets and waits until his order appears. Thankfully, the bar is mercifully quick this time.

"Have you eaten anything this morning?" he asks quietly, directing that the food items be placed in front of Poins. Then he drapes the blanket over his shoulders. "This"--he gestures to the food with a shark-toothed smile--"is katerfrühstück (hangover breakfast). Raw pickled herring, pickles, and onions. Your cure, should you be bold enough to try it."

Poins groans in deep revulsion.

Autor is nearly giddy, but there's an edge to it. "Watch out," he says softly, "it might get warm."

Poins takes one of the herring rolls and eats it.

"Now I feel quite the hero!"

"Hm," Autor says, sniffling as he sips his tea. "But it did take your mind off of being sick for a moment, did it not?"

"As a great kick to where it hurts me most would of a toothache!" Poins complains, but eats another one.

And Autor laughs, low and quiet. "Glad to hear you're feeling better."

"In mere defence against these gruesome things thou letst me eat!" Poins claims.

"They do tend to take you by force, don't they?" Autor smirks.

Edited 2013-01-19 02:45 (UTC)

"They march into my stomach like our armies when invading France!" Poins agrees.

"Mm," Autor says, "it's true. Fortify yourself improperly and you'll face a most awful siege."

"I fortified myself with so much sack last night, and yet, I thusly suffer!" Poins says, mock-mournfully.

Autor sips his tea. "Does a hangover still surprise you?" he asks softly. "Or do they vary in intensity just enough to be interesting?"

Autor would absolutely catalogue his hangovers; why wouldn't Poins do the same?

"Much as a siege would fain surprise a castle that is built to stand up every time to the invading army," Poins says. "It is expected, but still painful! And yes, indeed, each time it will employ a somewhat new approach."

"I thought your stomach was akin to France, and thus unsuited to war," Autor murmurs, and sips his tea. "And I was unaware that hangovers ravage you in different ways. I had thought they were solely limited to poisons."

He doesn't much like hangovers, but at least he's learning something, now. If he can guess at how intense they are, he'll have a better idea of how to treat them.

"Did you need a bed, Poins? Or perhaps a bath?"

Edited 2013-01-19 18:15 (UTC)

"Do I smell that grossly?" Poins asks, blunt.

Autor chuckles, low and sharp. "Maybe?" He has tuned it out by now. But he'll never read Shakespeare in quite the same way again, that's for certain.

Of course Ned Poins would suffer an eternal hangover, he thinks. It seems so obvious in hindsight.

"I thought it might help your head."

"Indeed, thou mighst be right," Poins says. "Do they have steam baths here?"

Autor shrugs, and then wipes his runny nose with his handkerchief. "Probably? They have a window that opens up unto the collapsing soul of the universe; I can't imagine that a steam bath would be too much trouble."

"But where?" Poins says. "Where may I find such marvels, where I may regroup the failing armies of my mind?"

Autor raises a brow at him.

"Ah, finally!" he says loudly, deliberately throwing a salvo onto Poins' head. "Someone who believes that the myth of a Mistress Bar is just that, and therefore she cannot be asked for anything."

Then he favors Ned with a crooked grin and a quiet voice. "Right?"

Poins chuckles.

"Bar. Steam-baths. Tell me, sweetest Lady, prithee please?" Poins says to the bar.

A key appears.

"You ply her with a silver tongue reserved for real women," Autor days, peering at the grains in the wood. "I don't doubt there id magic here, but life, and intelligence? Surely not."

"This silver tongue for real women hath such use as Bar may never treasure, or take pleasure in," Poins says, "and I well know it. Still, it won't go amiss to flatter and entreat a little. Never does!"

Autor has no idea what the man is talking about, but even though he's curious, he's not about to admit his ignorance. Poins might make fun of him. "But you're flattering a countertop."

"A countertop with feelings and a soul!" Poins says. "A most excellent Lady Countertop!"

"You can't prove it has a soul," he says irritably, sniffling. "Or feelings."

"Tis better to assume she hath a soul, than to offend her claiming that she doth not," Poins says, reasonably.

He dangles his key.

"And she delivers as one asks of her -- steam baths, I shall be coming!"

Autor purses his lips at that terrible, terrible logic. And as he isn't planning to follow Poins into the baths, Autor is going to sit here and order another cup of tea from the bar he doesn't believe in.

(OOC: Looks like a fade to me!)

Poins twirls the key around his finger, and exits to the stairs, pursued by none.

Not even a bear.

[[OOC: Thanks for the thread!!]]

Edited 2013-01-20 00:13 (UTC)