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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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."

"Rae is a very singular woman."

She nods slowly, in complete agreement. Truth be told, their positions are rather similar in nature. It's hard for Kate to see that, though.

"She's got a strength in her that would rival a hundred men, an' a light that comes from within. But all of us have our special talents. M'sure there are other things that come jus' as easily t'you."

Autor almost tells her that he wasn't talking about Rae, but he realizes that he was, and slams his mouth shut.

"You remind me of her in the way you both seek to make others feel better," he says, deliberately ignoring her comments about him. He can't help shifting, though, or plucking up a few weeds. "You're trying rather hard at it now."

She watches him quietly, debating whether she should help with the garden. She ultimately decides it's too precious to him right now, and wouldn't want to impose.

At that final remark, she can't help but smile.

"We're sittin' outside a funeral for a dear man. Perhaps I'm tryin' t'make us both feel a li'l better. I've a feelin' Urquhart would've rather we drank an' exchanged tawdry stories than sat an' moped."

The boy recoils a bit, as if stricken. "You're right," he admits immediately, embarrassed by his own response. "What sorts of... tawdry stories did you have in mind?"

Now it's Kate's turn to look stricken.

"No, I — I didn't mean — that is, I wasn't—"

Oh dear, she's quite flummoxed indeed. Could it be more by the mere thought of talking about something racy, or by how a few such stories spring to mind? Thanks, Tommy.

"Ah, that is, I was tryin' t'make a joke. Um."

Edited 2014-02-17 04:19 (UTC)

Autor peers at her, as if trying and failing to sort her out. "You have an odd sense of humor, Miss Barlow," he says, though there's no real venom in it. "But you are right. Ur--he wouldn't have wanted it this way."

Her face feels hot. She chokes out a laugh, combing some imagined curl behind her ear.

"Beggin' your pardon."

He has a point. She shouldn't have said anything she wasn't prepared to deliver on, no matter how absurd it had sounded in her head. Perhaps it wasn't the right thing to say at all.

"Ah — perhaps you could start?"

"What?" the boy squeaks. "You want me to--um."

He lifts his dusty hands and waves them about, trying to shield her from the blush stealing across his cheeks.

"Well, aside from the extramarital affairs of Zeus and the story of Pasiphae, I, ah, I don't-don't exactly know many, precisely," he says, "and you probably know those already because you were a schoolteacher, right?"

Her eyebrows brush her hairline. She can't help snickering, soft and birdlike.

Perhaps they aren't so different.

"S'true, the gods do make up for most of the debauchery recorded in the world. However, ah — well, I — I may know one story. One that doesn't involve any gods, even."

She hesitates, turning bright red.

"So long as y'don't tell no one y'heard it from me."

Party Post | Urquhart's Wake -- outside

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