milliways_bar | (no subject)

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As entrances to Milliways go, this is one of the more unprepossessing. A man stumbles through the door in slacks and T-shirt (a particular brand of underwear showing above his waistband); despite the fairly well-groomed hair and care with his appearance, he still seems a little crumpled and ungainly. The door swings near someone, and he instantly apologises before standing almost straight and looking around.

(Interesting.)

'...oh. Um.

...oh.'

Well, this is new. Jim likes new.

[OOC: Note on playing with Jim here. If more than one person tags, could we please only have one intro thread? Anything after the first will find him either sitting a little nervously at the bar, or gazing in wonder out of the observation window. Thanks! :D]

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'No, no, not at all.'

Not much startles Jim. Not even a non-human female, because he's too busy taking in every detail.

On the outside, his face goes 0_0!

'I mean no, sorry. I just...I only just came here, and I...sorry.'

Staring, yeah. In his mind, searching for something to attach this new information to - and for the first time in a very long time, coming up with almost nothing.

"You don't need to apologize. I haven't been here that long, myself. But a tavern is a tavern, for the most part, or so I find."

She laughs again, quietly, and nudges Liranan away from Jim just a little. Mostly so the dog can actually jump up against the window and press his nose to the glass.

"I wonder if that's why this place looks as it does."

'You mean...kinda not like a pub at all? Only-'

He gestures around helplessly, the epitome of a slightly awkward Englishman in an alien place.

'-with beer, and stuff?'

"Well, I was thinking more as a dirty, weird-smelling place that sells alcohol you don't know the name of, is packed way too full of strangers that your mother wouldn't speak to, and has a rotating cast of cats, dogs, rats, and probably bats, if you climb the stairs high enough. Or find a chimney."

Confidingly --

"Maybe I've visited too many taverns, now I think of it."

'...if you put it like that, then-'

He dissolves into an uneasy chuckle, and his eyes flit around the place again. They've been doing that a lot since he arrived, and not just because its part of the disguise.

'I think maybe I haven't been to enough. But I don't know any in London that sound like that.'

"Considering I don't know whether London is a city, a country, or a planet, I don't think any explanation or guess of mine will shed any light on the differences."

She laughs again, smiling and tucking her hair behind her ear.

"I'm Ysalwen Surana. Not that that's likely to make anything clearer, either. Except maybe future conversation. In a way."

'Oh, I'm sorry. I suppose I shouldn't assume...I mean, I can't even guess at where you might be from.'

No more than twenty guesses, anyway.

'London's a city. The capital city of England, which is a country on Earth.'

He says this in an entirely helpful voice, but his eyes are sharp in order to catch her reaction.

"Earth seems to be a common answer, here, though you sound about as Fereldan as I do, which has begun to seem odd, here, I'll admit."

Dalish sound Welsh and Irish, Orlesians are French, and Antivans are generally Spanish.

Qunari and Dwarves are American or Canadian. Not both.

"What kind of a country is England?"

'Sorry, what's...Fereldan?'

Usually when he asks what something is, it's to cover that he already knows it. This time, it is not the case. He observes the sensation from a distance, almost admiring it.

'Oh, and I'm Jim. Didn't mean to ignore that bit. England's...y'know, small. It's part of an island. Nondescript, these days.'

Boring. For the most part.

"Fereldan is the word for people from Ferelden. It's my country. Well, not mine, but it's the country where I was born. Denerim is the city. I grew up on Lake Calenhad, however, in the Circle Tower there. It's called Kinloch Hold officially, I guess, but I never bothered."

Liranan turns his head and barks once, loudly. He caps it off with a growl.

Ysalwen does not like the Tower. At all. He remembers.

"Only part of an island? That sounds -- tiny, I'm sorry to say. Huh. Are they all humans, the people who live in your England?"

Edited 2014-12-29 22:08 (UTC)

The information goes in, and gets locked safely away. Fereldan, Denerim, Lake Calenhad. Circle Tower. Kinloch Hold - and the dog is clever. It listens.

'It is, very small. We're all humans there too, more or less.'

Some more.

Some less.

'There's nothing like this here. It's kind of overwhelming, if I'm honest.'

He rolls his eyes around with a self-deprecating smile, as though he's a fool for finding it all a bit much.

"More or less? Is there some question in that? Or aren't there many external indicators?"

Like ears, or horns, or width, or height?

"Would you like to sit down? I'm not actually sure that will help, but if exploding suns aren't comforting, maybe a glass of that beer you were talking about would be."

'I usually find glasses of beer to be pretty comforting.'

Not that he's, like, an alcoholic or anything. Or much of a drinker. Or someone who touches beer when he doesn't have to.

'Another feature of the English, I'm afraid. Yeah, I wouldn't mind sitting down...and y'know, the thing about humanity, more or less-'

He looks uncomfortable, as though aware he's breached etiquette this early in a conversation.

'-probably an English thing too. It doesn't matter.'

"I find that it usually does. Unfortunately."

Her voice is dry, as is the twist to her mouth.

"Anyway. Would you like to try some Ferelden beer?"

Ferelden beer is . . . . most not from the country would probably call it 'unrefined'.

And/or 'swill'.

'Yeah, sure, definitely.'

Jim has an 'eager to please' quality about him, which will probably also be evident when he tastes said swill.

'It probably does matter. You're right.'

She's interesting. Straightforward, but not rude. Most pertinently, not from Earth. He needs to find out about those ears.

She'll settle at a nearby table, indicating its direction with her chin.

Mostly that's for Liranan, who joins them after a moment or two.

He is panting.

"You're allowed to have your own opinions, you know. On this place, or your world, or the inherent qualities of people near and far."

Her mouth quirks.

"I'm certainly not going to hide mine."

Then she waves down a waitrat, requesting two mugs of Fereldan beer.

'Oh yeah, of course.'

He nods earnestly, and sits down in a way that seems like he's trying not to take up to much space on the chair.

'It's just, y'know, I work in I.T. I spend more time with computers than anything.'

This is obviously a very clear and sensible answer to her statement.

"I understand that you work," Ysalwen says.

"I don't know what I.T.s are. Or computers."

Edited 2014-12-29 23:50 (UTC)

'Oh. Oh? Yeah, sorry. I guess you must not-'

It was patently obvious from the start that she wouldn't know what a computer is; she looks like she just stepped out of World of Warcraft or something. Or the Middle Ages.

'I.T. stands for Information Technology. It's to do with computers, which are like...electronic brains that calculate things for us, if you put the right information in and speak to it in the right language.'

"So . . . "

Ysalwen's brow furrows as she tries to follow his explanation.

" -- golems powered by lightning? Do they work faster than humans, or more tirelessly?"

That last one seems to be the chief draw of golems, in Ysalwen's experience.

And on that thought --

"Do you make them?"

One person has to sacrifice their soul to inhabit every golem.

Ysalwen is not really a fan. Especially when the sacrifices are unwilling. And they always become unwilling.

This brings a genuine blink from him, followed by an all-too-rare rush of euphoria; a genuine flood of something new. His throat is thick with it for a moment, which he passes off as surprise at her reply and an attempt to think of a better explanation.

'No, I just work with them. They're not like golems, I don't think. They're - well, they're definitely faster than humans-' most humans, '-and they only stop when you turn them off, or they break. They're not like any kind of person. They run...programs, you know? Sequences of numbers? They send information?'

He sounds rather like a parent hoping someone will acknowledge something good about their kid, but with not much expectation.

Liranan's head lifts and he barks, just the once.

Ysalwen rests her hand between his ears, scratching gently.

"How do you know they're not like a person?"

Call her curious.

'...well, they're made of plastic and metal. And glass, for the screen. There's nothing alive in them. We just put the bits together, and they work.'

She remains interesting, if only because she proves that this variety of non-humans has the same cares as ordinary people; the humanity of others, for example, and probably a vested interest in right and wrong.

"No animating spark? Hmm."

Strange.

"Do you like them? These computers you work with."

'Uh. Yeah? I mean, it's a job. Average pay, but it's versatile. Everywhere uses computers.'

And he's always had a knack with them.

'They do need electricity to make them go, but that doesn't make them alive.'