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 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."

"Of course I wouldn't tell--I'm complicit in the hearing," Autor says, wrapping an arm around his knees, "but I'll not... I'll not stop you. If this is what you want to do."

He fixes her with a piercing stare. "Okay. I'm ready."

Oh, golly, she don't really want to do this.

But it is in the spirit of the day. In Urquhart's honor. And, strange as that may seem, it feels important. Autor's unwavering gaze just spurs her forward, so she takes a breath and nods, shy in the telling.

(Thank you kindly, Michael Gavin.)

"Well ... all right, so there was this tiny village on the Irish coast where there lived an old lady, a virgin an' very proud of it. Sensin' her final days were comin' up quick, and wantin' to make sure everythin' was in proper order when she died, she went to the undertaker, who also happened t'be the local postman, to make the proper 'final' arrangements. As a last wish, she told 'im that she wanted the followin' engraved on her tombstone: 'BORN A VIRGIN, LIVED AS A VIRGIN, DIED A VIRGIN'.

"Now, not long after that, the old maid died peacefully. A few days after the funeral, as the postman-cum-undertaker went t'prepare the tombstone she'd requested, it became quite clear that the tombstone was much too small for the words she chose. He thought long an' hard 'bout how he could fulfill the old maid's final request, considerin' the very limited space on the small piece of stone. For days, he agonized over this, until finally his experience as a postman allowed him t'come up with what he thought was an appropriate solution t'the problem. The virgin's tombstone was finally completed an' duly engraved, an' it read:

" 'RETURNED UNOPENED'."

She wets her lips, and then goes totally quiet.

Autor sits back on his haunches and stares blankly at her for a few seconds. He furrows his brow, peering at her, and then understanding blossoms all over his face.

"Oh, that is terrible," he says, air rushing out of him as if he'd just been punched in the chest. "But exactly what Urquhart would have wanted. He told me the asparagus are metaphors for, uh, ahem"--and here he casts his eyes down to the dirt, away from her and the garden both--"spring behavior."

Kate's stuck on their earlier metaphors, her own expression blank.

"Fingers?"

As soon as the words leave her mouth, however —

"Oh. Oh!"

She covers her mouth, choking on a laugh.

"Now, that's terrible. I picked a rather tame story compared t'that."

"Hey, it wasn't my story," Autor protests. "It was his. I... I guess it's mine, now."

He brushes his fingers over the fern-like top growth of the asparagus. "Thank you," he finally says, "for your racy story."

She sobers at length, a look of affection in her eyes. Whether it's for Autor, or Urquhart, or both is unclear.

(It's for both.)

"Any time, sweet—Autor."

She chuckles softly. Yes, it's his now.

"Sweet Autor?" he murmurs, squinting at her. "That's a strange endearment, Miss Barlow."

A strange endearment, he thinks, for a rather strange woman.

He stands, and stretches, making sure to scoop up the cider on the way. "I'm headed back to the bar. Are you coming?"

[OOC: Approaching a fade, perhaps? Thank you so much for the thread!]

If she knew him better, she might entertain the notion of sticking her tongue out at him. As it stands, she just laughs again and shakes her head, taking the criticism for her half-aborted endearment.

She smiles, happy for the invitation.

"Yes, I think I will. Thank you."

[ooc: yes, it looks like the right spot to me. Thank you, this was positively lovely! ^__^]

[OOC: My pleasure! They should thread again sometime.]

[ooc: yes, absolutely!]

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Party Post | Urquhart's Wake -- outside

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