milliways_bar | Party Post | Urquhart's Wake -- outside

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Party Post | Urquhart's Wake -- outside

As patrons enter the bar today, they may notice something a little different. A little more color, a sweeter scent; flowers, beautifully arranged. Sitting unobtrusively to one end of the Bar near the message board is an easel-mounted wreath arrangement, at its center the name Angus Urquhart, with the dates of his life, his afterlife, and his ultimate passing from the bar.

Should you follow the arrow pointing to the back door, similar but smaller flower arrangements mark the path to the lakeside. There, a modest affair is underway; seats, sturdy refreshment tables at Miss Sunshine's behest, music, and the makings of a bonfire closer to the shore for when it gets dark. The occasion may be somber, but above all this is a celebration of life — of the ever-so-much-more-than-nine lives of Angus Urquhart.

Come have a drink in his honor, or share your stories of his many adventures.

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"I know you're not," he says quietly, placing his mug down to take up the work again. "Running a wake is significantly harder than weeding a garden, and I'm sure your duties at home--whatever they are--have..."

He stops, and tilts his head. "Actually, that is a good question--what do you do at home? I assumed you were a ranch hand, from the way you were dressed."

She breathes a soft laugh.

"No — I grew up on a ranch, but I don't have a homestead. I, ah, take jobs here an' there. Don't stay in one place too long."

She pauses, and gestures over her shoulder.

"I help run the stables here, on the other hand. I'm workin' out there most mornin's an' evenin's."

"Ah. Wandering," the boy says, and then nods towards the stables. "And roots."

He unearths a particularly stubborn weed with a grunt. "What sorts of jobs?"

Her lips tilt into a crooked smile.

"Never could make up my mind."

She's an enigma, always has been. The gentle schoolteacher-cum-ruthless outlaw, soft-spoken and hard-hearted, gentle and cold. Part of her will always long for roots, but the larger part is too wild to be fenced in.

"The lucrative sort. Banks, stagecoaches, trains..."

"Oh, so you can shoot," he says, perking up. "Interesting. What made you start?"

[OOC: Gonna have to update that dossier after this thread. I can feel it. *grin*]

[ooc: ~laugh~ I make no apologies. ^__^]

She arches her eyebrows, surprised. Until, of course, she remembers she was wearing her six the first time he saw her.

"Y'didn't think I jus' carried it around for decoration, did you? How d'you mean, 'what made you start'?"

"Well, no, but bank robbery tends to require more skill with a firearm than defending yourself," he says. "And I mean... Why do you do it? You didn't just wake up and say, 'I think I'll rob a bank today,' right?"

'People love stories about crimes', huh?

He shakes his head. "And do keep in mind that you don't have to tell me. A lot of people forget."

"Sugar, if I didn't want you knowin' I would've told you I was a schoolteacher an' left it at that."

There are some details of her life she doesn't volunteer to just anybody; however, Milliways is neutral ground, insofar as anyplace is. She wants Autor to feel comfortable around her, which requires a little give and take. He's already stopped panicking, after all.

But the question gives her pause.

"I do it for two big reasons, I reckon. Some folk have more money than they have any business to, an' a girl's gotta eat."

Autor clears his throat. "There's no need for terms of endearment."

Ironically, 'Sugar' reminds him of that blond cop who frisks nuns. He doesn't end up with a full-on blush--he's too worn out for that mess--but he does chew on the inside of his cheek some.

The boy returns to weeding. "Makes sense. So does your being a school teacher. Did you have to give that up to take your other jobs?"

Edited 2013-11-20 04:07 (UTC)

She tries to hide a smirk, but isn't entirely successful.

"My apologies."

She's starting to notice how perceptive he is. As if he's logging away mental notes on everything for later use. Her eyes flick to the garden.

"No, I lost my schoolhouse. Decided t'change vocations."

Ah, I figured we'd get to the real motivation eventually, he thinks.

"Do you send money back to anyone?" he asks, skimming right over her smirk and apology. "Families of the school kids, maybe, for textbooks and things?"

"No."

Her expression is unreadable.

"There ain't no one."

"My condolences on the loss of your schoolhouse," Autor says, passing his fingertips over the seed ball of a dandelion. "Being uprooted like that must have hurt."

He shucks his gloves, and settles back. "You didn't bring any cider for yourself," the boy points out.

Edited 2013-11-20 07:14 (UTC)

She inclines her head graciously, though she doesn't say anything. It's kind and a little comforting to receive his condolences, though she doesn't need them. It simply feels like something of a victory from where they started off.

"I didn't have enough hands. But, tell y'what, I'll happily split that piece'a cake with you if y'like."

"No," Autor says softly, "thank you. Sweet things don't suit me, and I'm not suited to them."

He does pick up his own mug, though. "But don't let me stop you. People who speak with me really should have their own cider."

"There's good herbed bread an' cheese, as well."

She turns the plate so they're now facing him, not pressing on the sweets. To be honest, after being a child for a week Kate's had enough sweets to last a lifetime. She makes some exceptions for Rae's wonderful foods, however.

"I'll be sure t'bring my own next time. Is there a reason beyond politeness why I should have one?"

"I am amazed that everyone is so concentrated on feeding one another here," Autor muses, whispering as he stares into his mug. "Even I've done it."

The boy shrugs at her. "Cider is bracing."

Edited 2013-11-22 19:46 (UTC)

She nods in answer to both comments.

"So is a good meal. Miss Bar, in her own way, mothers an' feeds us all, food always fresh an' plentiful. S'not like that in every world; we all have a need t'stay alive an' content. When your belly's full of somethin' hot an' tasty, y'feel one step closer t'handling whatever else gets thrown at you."

Autor cocks his head to the side. "I've never thought of it that way. But why feed others?" he asks. "Some bizarre manifestation of empathy?"

He sips more cider, closing his eyes. "Urquhart was a great cook, too."

She pauses.

They're on such fragile ground right now, she isn't sure if her comments on Urquhart would be welcomed. So she begins with his question, giving it serious thought.

"When a sparrow is wounded, her mate will bring her food knowin' that she can't get to it on her own. When we're hurt, sometimes we forsake the simplest necessities. It's — part of grievin'. Perhaps somewhere along the line it became second nature t'meet hardship with sustenance."

He raises a brow at her--logging away her hesitation and the hole in her words--and then inclines his head.

"So essentially," he says, mulling this over, "taking care of something basic so that the person hurting can put their energy towards something else."

She nods slowly.

"Yes. That seems t'fit well."

She breaks off half a cookie, more to be polite to his earlier request than out of sincere hunger. She nibbles quietly, thinking it all over.

"Sometimes it helps knowin' someone's gonna care for the little things when y'need them to."

"Doesn't it wear on you, though?" he asks, watching her eat the cookie rather closely indeed. "Feeding everyone?"

She chuckles softly. It's a sweet little sound, like the chatter of morning birds.

"No, not at all. Miss Bar does the brunt of the work here, anyhow. But, even if I did do everythin' myself — no."

She shakes her head, looking off in some hazy direction.

"No, I'm happy t'do what I can."

Autor tilts his mug back and forth, watching his remaining cider slosh around. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, trying to sort his words. "I don't think I could do what you do," he says, "or what Rae does."

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