(no subject)

[never_promised]

There's a loose-limbed figure draped at the bar, studying a paper napkin and paying out coin from a purse. "Item, one football: fourteen pounds. Fourteen pounds? Fourteen pounds for a quantity of air and skin--oh, hold a moment, I see, adjusted for 15th century currency, sixpence. Dame Bar, thou art an accommodating hostess, as every good hostess should be. And that should be my full reckoning...there...with the addition of another pound to hold my room until my return, hey?"

Hal tidies the coins into a pile and shakes his head when they vanish. Isn't that the way of all money. But he gives the bar a little pat, and returns to the leisurely enjoyment of his drink, his last in Milliways for now.

He has to go home and round up some horses.

((Exit post for Hal for now, though he'll be back soon enough! Feel free to tag him, he's loitering a little longer.

Link is to an OOM with Hotspur. Warnings for young men from Shakespeare being awful about gender and sexuality.))

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[onceaviking]

A tall, blond, pale man steps up to the bar next to him.

He is wearing awfully tight black jeans, a just as tight lack t-shirt, and black boots.

He too seems to be there to settle his tab, although he is paying with American bills.

[never_promised]

Hal watches the paper money with extreme (-ly amused) doubt. "Mistress Bar doth accept notes of hand in place of payment? Trusting soul!"

[onceaviking]

Eric looks up at him with red rimmed eyes.
"They're a little after your time. Printed bills in lieu of coins, issued by the government."

He lifts an eyebrow. "I never carry coins."

They ruin his pants. Pam would have a fit.

[never_promised]

"Ay, a promissory note, but how will the bar get her silver? She cannot hie her to your bank, your king's exchequer."

[onceaviking]

"It's a purely symbolic system," Eric says. "No exchange necessary. I know it sounds insane, but it works."

[never_promised]

Hal closes his mouth on another protest. What sense does any of the payment here make? The bar can't hie her to Eastcheap either and buy a gallon of sack with two shillings from his purse. Whatever money means here, it's not what it means at home.

He rubs his jaw and after a moment, laughs. "'Twould not do in England, that I can promise you. Our soldiers would not march for a scrap of paper, were they not assured it could turn to good silver coin. What is your home, sir?"

[onceaviking]

Eric turns to face him fully, leaning on the counter with one arm.
"These days I live in America," he says. "But I was born in Sweden."

A small smile.

"And the system is the same all over. At least in my time. Which isn't yours."

He remembers clothes like that.
Fucking annoying.

[never_promised]

"And what might your time be?" His tone is amiably blasé; not so much the voice of someone thoroughly used to the strangeness of Milliways' worlds and times, but the voice of someone who can afford to pick and choose what he cares about.

[onceaviking]

"The 21st century," Eric replies, lifting one eyebrow. Just a little. Just enough to indicate that he rarely cares about what others pick and choose.

[auxin]

"How does it do that?" asks a young lad in a Watchman's armour. "Make things just vanish, I mean."

[never_promised]

"'Tis the way of all coin, is it not? Whence comes it? A mystery! Where goes it? A greater mystery yet!"

[auxin]

"I guess, though we take it back to the bank." Auxin says.

[never_promised]

"Ay, there's that." Hal's expression could be best described as a smirk. But he amends it to a grin. "And what's thy country, whose banks thou fillest up?"

[auxin]

"Ankh-Morpork." the lance-constable says, grinning back. "What about yours?"

[never_promised]

"England." He sprawls comfortably against the bar. "But where is Ankh-Morpork?"

[auxin]

"On the Disc." Auxin says. "Where's England?"

[never_promised]

"Why, 'tis...just across a bit of water from France. Have they no France where thou comest from?"

[livinginmyglass]

"Settling up accounts, sir?" Viola asks, edging up alongside him at the bar. "Wilt return to England, then?"

[never_promised]

"Cesario! The Caesar of Illyria!" He salutes, in a dubiously Roman fashion. "Art still here, lad? Or is it a matter of here again?"

[livinginmyglass]

She scuffs the toe of her shoe in (mostly) mock sheepishness. "It is still, I do confess it. I am a wicked idler."

[never_promised]

"Thou hast been idling, and I have been idling; then how comes it we have not idled into one another? Well, and to answer your question, yes, I return to England when I have finished this pint of ale." Or...sometime.

[livinginmyglass]

"Truly, I know not-- though 'tis a vast place. And I pass much time in the library," she adds. "And I think I have not seen thee there. Though 'tis large beyond imagining, and it may be merely that our paths did not cross."

[never_promised]

"Is it truly so large? I was there more than once." Shrug. Idling does keep a person busy. "And what makest thou now? Idling with all your might?"

[livinginmyglass]

"I think I have scarce seen the same room twice!" She laughs. "But perhaps 'tis not its size that makes it so, but my unfamiliarity."

What makes she now, there's the question. Avoiding Illyria until she has somehow found a solution for unsolvable problems, is the correct answer.

"With all my might, sir, just so."

[never_promised]

"...Wouldst like to earn glory and lasting fame in London?"

Not that there's anything wrong with Milliways for idling, but they could do even better!