(no subject)

[in_revision]

The door opens, and a man walks in. He must have been here before, once upon a time - he's certainly not a regular, but he doesn't even pause as he takes up a seat at the bar, leaning against the wood so he can casually people-watch.




Ward is pretty sure aliens are involved. Aliens, maybe the ones who call themselves gods (this seems like a place the one that calls himself Thor would like), and... magic?

No. He's not ready yet to admit magic. That's still weird, even for him.




(OOC: Hellllllloo Milliways!)

Comments

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

It's not all people to watch. Some of it is dogs. Like Aussie cattle dogs for whom 'scruffy' would be too kind a descriptor.

Dogmeat doesn't outright go up to every single person in the Bar to make the 'feed me' face, but he does seem to be snuffling around to try and find humans who might make good candidates.

[in_revision]

Well, he's certainly not in New York City, where he just left. Somehow, Ward can't imagine many bars (ones that can attract inspectors, anyway) that would allow a dog to wander around loose, without being someone's therapy dog or something.

Still, little dude seems hungry.

Someone left some.... fried... things (they're like twisted onion rings, except onions don't grow like that) on the bartop (actually, Bar put them there as a welcoming gesture, but... Ward hasn't gotten that intel yet) so he tosses one to the dog.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

!!

The dog (hey, it has a collar- if you consider a leather strip that looks like it was hacked off the trim of somebody's uniform jacket and given a buckle only by dint of luck a collar) pounces on the fried thing and immediately commences the OM NOM CHOMPSNARF noises. Because fried thing.

(There is a human, shortish and grey-haired and wearing old-fashioned dark green military garb, looking for him. Or at least looking for something, since it's not like non-telepaths can tell what she's looking for, exactly.)

[in_revision]

Well, it didn't immediately keel over, so he supposes the fried... things aren't highly toxic. Good to know. Idly he tosses the dog another fried thing, because... well. Because.

Not everything needs a reason.

The grey-haired woman is noted, of course. She moves like someone who has had to take charge, whether of herself or her environment is still something he's deciding. Besides, a young woman with grey hair is striking.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Food. Food is the reason. Food is ALL THE REASON ANYTHING NEEDS.

... he's a dog, not a philosopher.

At any rate he barks joyfully this time and snarfs down the next one. The bark catches the woman's attention; she starts migrating in its direction. "Dogmeat?" she calls. "Who are you bothering now, boy?"

[morethanprops]

Moist is fairly sure he can't hide in his room anymore but his door isn't opening yet. That's why he's at a table with a whiskey and a pastry when Ward enters, he's dressed casually for him in a sweater and looks up at Ward's entrance.

Ward is an attractive and calm man and he nods from farther along the counter, going for the attitude of friendly companionship a bar creates, "Evening, they have the best selection here."

[in_revision]

Ward nods, with enough of a smile to portray friendliness rather than exuberance.

"Definitely a perk." He agrees amicably.

[morethanprops]

"Yes, you can find things here that you'd never expect,"

This isn't always good like the flu he had but there are benefits. The pastry he's nibbling which is as tasty as his grandmother made is an example.

[in_revision]

"Comes with the variety available - all the best places have a bit of surprise." Sure, it's not the most revealing conversation, but it's amicable enough, and lets him sink a bit into the bar ambiance.

[morethanprops]

"Milliways more than most. What world did you come in from?"

He has his guess but then he knows the odds in Milliways.

[forgottenmotley]

A... we'll use the word man... sits down next to Ward. He's dressed in a hideously bottle green Victorian era coat with patches, a matching top hat that's a little bit too big, carrying a well used walking stick and his eyes are an almost glowing amber.

After a moment's thought, he decides to stare at Ward.

[in_revision]

... Maybe he is still in New York City. This guy'd fit.

Ward fails to react, or rather, he fails to shy away, or stare back, or even act like he's seen the fellow. It's best not to encourage such behavior, after all.

[forgottenmotley]

It doesn't seem to work.

He just keeps on getting stared at.

Though after a moment, without taking his eyes off of Ward, the Fool cracks open a peanut and rolls it around in his fingers thoughtfully.

[in_revision]

Sure, it's working. He's not talking to the guy, after all.

Huh, there's rats with clothes. Clothed rats. Someone is way too into their pets.

[forgottenmotley]

And the peanut is flicked, aimed for the nose.

still room?

[starrydome]

Someone sits down next to him. Someone very tall and quite regal, dressed in somber yet richly embroidered layers of clothing ( linen undertunic, woollen trousers, lightly woven woollen tunic with silk trim and a heavy woollen cape).

He gives the Man a small nod and a smile. Then he orders a glass of wine.

His voice is pleasant. The skin on his hands looks smooth, but apart from that he is hard to place agewise.

Always

[in_revision]

Money. So much money. He can't place the accent, which is weird. With as much travelling as he's done, he usually can get down to the correct region.

Ward nods back, amicably. He's still trying to figure out what he's gotten himself into here (results are inconclusive).

[starrydome]

Elrond shrugs off his cloak (elegantly), smoothes his hair down his back (with practiced ease), and takes a sip of his wine,
His ears are gently leaf-shaped.

He asks for a plate of something (the word may sound somewhat Finnish, but the cadence is softer and more musical, despite the high number of consonants) .

The something turns out to be a sort of crackers, golden and fragrant, and soft cheese mixed with chopped herbs.
He turns slightly and says, "If you feel peckish, there's plenty."

His eyes are - bright, for lack of a better word.
Starlit.

[in_revision]

Aliens.

Damnit.

Why is it always aliens now-a-days?

"No, that's alright, but thank you." Look, he's as royally sick of aliens as the next SHIELD agent, but it's a good idea to stay polite. They're... not fun when they're pissed off.

[starrydome]

Elrond smiles in reply and takes a bite.

"I do not think I have seen you here before," he says. It is always a good conversation starter. If conversation is wanted that is. If not, it is a pretty good gauge of that as well.

[bigarmy_strangepants]

The people to watch are certainly quite varied.

One of them, for example, is a tall Viking in rough homespun, with his hair shaved at the sides and coming down his back in a long, stiff braid.

And armed, of course. But also equipped with a horn up of mead, and a friendly grin.

He nods at Ward, and lifts his drink as if in general greeting.

[in_revision]

You know, he saw something like this once, when he had a job up in Iceland. Some people are really into their heritage.

Considering the heritage, he supposes he can't blame them.

...

So... is this a portal to Iceland? That'd be... weird.

Ward nods back, agreeably. No sense in pissing off the guy who looks like he might give the Asgardians a run for their money.

[bigarmy_strangepants]

"Skol!" the Viking says. "Want a drink?"

[in_revision]

.... Did that guy just raise a toast to him? By way of greeting?

Reminds him of one of his contacts in Ukraine.

"Ah, no, thank you, but I'm still on the clock." He admits regretfully, since going toe-to-toe with this guy in a drinking match seems to be a losing proposition from the start.

[bigarmy_strangepants]

The Viking peers at the seat Ward is on. "Is that a special chair you can't have a drink on?" he asks, in a resigned tone of voice. Modern people are so weird!