first entrance;

[faithfulspear]

The door opens, this time, for an older, weatherbeaten sort of a man, in armor that looks vaguely Roman in style. There's a gladius belted at his waist, at the slight angle that ensures the easiest draw, and he looks, very briefly, nonplussed. This is not what he was expecting, in the slightest, and he pauses to check behind him before coming fully into the Bar and letting the door close behind him.

He squares himself visibly, and drops his hand from the half-made reach for his sword. He hasn't been dropped into an active fight and this is something entirely new; it behooves him to take stock of the situation.

Listening's always served him well. Marcus crosses to the bar -- that, at least, is a self-evident thing -- and sits, negotiating the hang of his sword with the ease of a man long used to it.

Comments

[student_of_impossibility]

Not long after Marcus enters, a far younger man walks in, only glancing up briefly from the papers he's reading. If he hadn't had the beard, he could have easily been Gaius Septimus, or even almost Gaius Sextus a half century earlier--especially with the abstractly irritated glare he's giving at the papers he's reading. All but for the beard, and the scars on his face, which no watercrafter of that strength would have developed.

They're also scars that are probably rather familiar to Marcus, considering he's been watching the young man in question settle into a sense of responsibility. The beard, though, that might be new.

When he reaches the Bar and slides onto a seat--conveniently next to Marcus--a glass of wine just appears out of nowhere. For a long moment Tavi stares at it before sighing. "No, Bar--thank you, but I shouldn't. I shouldn't start drinking until after I've dealt with Ehren's report. But hold the thought, I'll need it." The wine vanishes, replaced by a hot bowl of stew--a Tortallan knight may have once left instructions regarding Tavi's eating habits--and he just rolls his eyes and sets down his work. Fine, so the Bar is making him eat, but as long as Marcus is here he can--

Wait.

Crows.

Why couldn't it have been Kitai today? He can't even tell when Fidelias is from, not yet. So he just raises an eyebrow, figuring if he was talking that should be enough to get the man's attention.

[faithfulspear]

It is neither Gaius Septimus nor Gaius Sextus, and for that Marcus is, abruptly, profoundly grateful. At the sound of Tavi's voice Marcus looks over, and it shakes him a little. The Princeps has not had time to grow a beard in the time since Marcus last saw him. Something's wrong with this situation, or this place, or both.

But it is Octavian. Familiar mention of Ehren. Familiar scars. Exceptional family resemblance. A superbly talented watercrafter, maybe, but anyone aiming to imitate him should have matched him, not extrapolated. Marcus's questions will not be about his identity, but the location.

"Your Highness," Marcus says, and there's a question in the address, wondering if Octavian is going to explain. Wondering, perhaps, if that's still the correct form.

[student_of_impossibility]

Superbly talented watercrafter? Well, yes, Octavian is that--not that Marcus has any reason to be aware of that. Nor does Tavi have any intention of explaining it to--

Crows take it. I hate this place sometimes. He casually leans against the Bar, and silently and entirely internally uses that touch to give the blasted piece of wood a very clear idea of just how annoyed he is about this.

On the other hand, having minionssubordinates in the Bar is never a bad thing.

The address answers the first of Tavi's questions, at least in part; the look Marcus is giving him--and more obvious than one Fidelias would give him, at that--says more. After Arnos, before the beard (and Sextus' death). Well, it's something to work with. What he's not sure of, though--

"First time?" he asks dryly.

[faithfulspear]

Octavian has picked up more in those few seconds of assessment on either side than Marcus has. Even as Fidelias, he's missing a critical bit of context.

He isn't exceptionally fond of being out of his depth this way, but at least there's some semblance of solid ground, in the person Marcus finds himself faced with. Marcus nods assent. "Not yours," he comments in turn. That much is easy enough to work out.

There's a pause as he figures what words to put on the next question. Issues with time, save not having enough of it, have never been something he thought would present a problem. "You've grown since I last saw you," Marcus says finally. "Your Highness. What's going on here?" He's hoping for a straightforward explanation -- ha -- even as his mind steadily works away at analyzing differences.

[student_of_impossibility]

Come now, Marcus, when has anything with Octavian been straightforward?

There is a part of Tavi deeply, rather sadistically enjoying the knowledge that Fidelias has to be hiding feeling well and truly caught off-guard. Still, handling this potentially delicate situation--and faced with the many warnings he could give and not knowing which--is keeping Tavi's brain working overtime.

"The secret of my childhood," he says cheerfully. After all, to the best of Marcus' knowledge to this point, he's trusted enough that Octavian will be a little casual with him. (Of course, Sextus used to do it too.) "Mostly to avoid sounding like a lunatic."

Some people would argue that was not successful despite his best attempts.

He waves a hand around at the room. "Milliways. The Bar at the End of the Universe. The short version: bar between dimensions, sometimes doors lead here when they're not supposed to, time doesn't pass at home while here, and sometimes people are from different points in the same timeline." Which should answer Marcus' question about the beard. (At least it means there's some kind of future, if there's no indication how much of one...)

[faithfulspear]

He can dream.

Marcus nods to the first -- it's a good point, and it also half-answers another question. Octavian wouldn't have sounded like a lunatic if he could demonstrate the Bar, one way or another, so either it can't be done intentionally, or one can't bring people who haven't found their way there themselves. Possibly both. "There's no controlling it?" he picks to ask, cuing off the 'sometimes.'

At least the question about the beard has been answered. Marcus glances around at the bar with the gesture, wonders how much more Octavian has left out that he thinks self-evident for one reason or another. "How much further forward are you?"

[student_of_impossibility]

Oddly enough, Tavi hasn't left out anything because he thinks it's self-evident.

He may, however, be leaving things out because he wants to.

Grimacing slightly, Tavi shakes his head. "Sadly, no. A few people I know seem to have approximately reliable ways of getting here, but I've yet to find one." And he won't, really, until he's more settled in one place so Bar doesn't have to keep picking different doors.

The second question, however, just earns a raised eyebrow from Octavian--the expression is eerily like one of Sextus'. Partly for form's sake, and partly as it is obvious and established (if not in so many words) that he is further in the future, Tavi asks, "Last major event, First Spear, and how long since it happened?"

After all, he absolutely gets to ask that question.

[fluffiest_archadian]

Sherral watches from afar for the first few minutes, gauging whether to approach, and once Marcus is at the bar, pushes off from his booth.

He's young - he can't be older than twenty - but he holds himself like a soldier, and the charcoal grey clothes he's dressed in certainly look like off-duty wear for someone in the military.

"The Bar provides the first drink for free," he says lightly. "As a courtesy, one presumes."

[faithfulspear]

Marcus half-twists, to look at the young man approaching. Military's easy to catch, one soldier to another, and there's something of recognition in the way he nods to the newcomer.

Granted, just military doesn't mean smart or worth respecting; Marcus has watched enough young legionares to know that. Still. No reason not to approach him on an equal level, especially since Marcus is somewhat out of his depth. "Good to know," he says. A pause, and then, "Valiar Marcus." He offers a hand.

[fluffiest_archadian]

The handshake is still a gesture that Sherral isn't quite used to, but he takes it, giving Marcus' hand a firm shake. "Sherral Maduin."

"I don't suppose anyone has given you the welcoming speech yet."

[faithfulspear]

Marcus nods, making note of the name. "My commanding officer," he says, shortcutting the messy explanation of Gaius Octavian in favor of something more succinct and less revealing. "Doesn't mean a second point of view wouldn't be interesting." Or useful.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"You'll have more than your fair share of people trying to explain this place to you, I should hardly add to it," Sherral says. "So long as you know the rules, I needn't bore you with repeating aught of it."

[faithfulspear]

"Fair enough." Marcus nods at the seat next to him now, a gesture that, while a little curt, is as clear an invitation as it can be. "Not going to be much for conversation, but I won't say no to company, either." Specifically, company that knows the Bar and isn't from his world.

[street_sparrow]

"You can just ask for whatever you want", Gavroche tells him from down the counter. "Don't worry about there being nobody there."

[faithfulspear]

Marcus slants a deeply skeptical look down the bar at Gavroche. He's seen amazing things produced with furycrafting, but a bar that produces drinks of its own accord, out of thin air, has thus far not been among them.

Still, he attempts it, speaking an order aloud under his breath, and is rewarded with a mug of something appropriately dark and liquid, much the same as he might find in any similar establishment at home.

Gavroche gets an arched eyebrow for that one, as Marcus rests his hands around the mug. "Thanks," he says, and, "It's not an invisible barman, then."

[street_sparrow]

"Not invisible at all", he says cheerfully, "she's right there in front of you. That first drink's free, by the way."

[faithfulspear]

"She," Marcus repeats. Gives the bar a dubious look, which ebbs in a moment with a bit of a shrug. He shifts to place one hand flat on the wood, giving Etan a nudge toward it.

His wood fury passes back in no uncertain terms that the bar -- the Bar -- is occupied. Whatever it is, it's most easily compared to a contained fury. Maybe a great fury; Marcus can't tell. It's just enough to confirm that there's something, and that Gavroche is not just seeing how much he can trick the newcomer into believing.

Marcus grunts, acknowledging. "Thanks," he says, and, "You are?"

[street_sparrow]

"Gavroche Riddle." He inclines his head. "Pleased to meet you, and welcome to Milliways."

[faithfulspear]

Marcus doesn't repeat the thanks, but he returns the nod, and the introduction in kind. "Valiar Marcus." He considers the Bar, then the youth again. "You've been here a while, then?"

[thewidewideworld]

A pretty youth paces the rug in front of the fire, softly reciting poetry to himself. He gives an exasperated sigh and comes over to the bar to consult a small volume sitting not far from where the man is standing. “Dusk, not sunset! What do I keep getting that wrong?”

He notices the man for the first time and looks up with a smile. Which grows a little wary at the sight of the sword. “Pardon, sir. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

[faithfulspear]

Marcus shakes his head. Impossible to miss the youth declaiming poetry, yes, but he's hard to disturb. "It's fine," he says dismissively, lifting one hand as if to wave it off.

He doesn't miss the wariness, either, but only gives it a mental shrug. People will be wary of soldiers. It's a wise enough response, all things considered. "...Try fixing it to an image," Marcus says, after another minute's thought. It's gruff, but not unkind. "A word's just a word. Harder to switch them if you're seeing it."

[thewidewideworld]

The youth nods. "The piece is long and not in my native tongue. I have been affixing each stanza to a image of the mosaic floor of the forum, that I might remember it by stations but the meter changes in the middle and I find it trips me up."

[faithfulspear]

This isn't his strongest point. Memorization, fine; poetry, a little less so. "Are there any breaks in the pattern?" Marcus tries after a moment. "Something you can use to remind yourself." He twists a little, shifting to face the youth more properly, since this is turning into a more involved conversation.

[thewidewideworld]

"Several times. I've thought to try returning to the high table at the points the patterns change, to reset the meter but it's harder to practice here away from the forum. But here I have time to practice without being seen and won't break the illusion of my talent."

He catches himself for his poor manners and bows gracefully. "Forgive me, sir. I am Sinric, of the Scared Palace of Byzantium."

[faithfulspear]

This catches half a chuckle out of Marcus. The illusion of talent, indeed. "Might want to put it down for a while," he says. "If you've been at it that long."

He inclines his head in return, which is about as formal as he's likely to get. "Valiar Marcus," he adds, simply.