milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Eliot is in bar and has taken over one of the booths. He's got a large piece of paper suitable for water colors and is unrolling a canvas roll of various tools used for the many forms of calligraphy; brushes, pens, quills, and the like. Patiently he begins to write on his paper, quickly filling it with various languages--Chinese, Farsi, Greek, Cyrillic, and other non-Latin alphabets--elegantly switching tools as the language demands.

If you happen to read any of the languages, he's writing dirty limericks. The narration apologizes if this offends.

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You can't just sit in the middle of the room writing various languages and expect an elf to not notice.

Cue an elf lord noticing.
A lordly elf lod, complete with embroidered robes and a silver circlet.

Cue one Eliot softly whistling in appreciation of said elf lord. Distracted, a drop of watery ink beads on the end of his brush, threatening to spoil the Kanji he's just written.

Elrond nods at it.

"Careful," Elrond says. "Or you might spoil it."

"Oh," he says distractedly but turns his attention to where indicated. Catching the drop just before it falls, he pulls the brush back and rests it on a small tray (after dabbing it on a cloth). "Thank you. Honestly, it wouldn't have been too much a crime, this is only practice work, but I'm growing fond on it."

It is shaping up into an interesting piece, which each language flowing in a slightly different shape which merges into the next.

Elrond smiles and steps closer to take a look.

"It does have very pleasing lines."

And the translation field is helpfully providing a full translation.

It doesn't seem to faze him though.

"Maybe I'll give it to this first year student whose caught my eye." As he speaks, he caps the ink so it doesn't dry out and grabs one of the pens to clean it with a rag. That done he offers a hand. "But I am being fiendishly rude. If I may introduce myself, I am Eliot Waugh."

Edited 2017-02-13 21:43 (UTC)

Elrond takes the offered hand, carefully, as one does when one is following along with a strange ritual.

"Well met, Elliot Waugh. My name is Elrond Half-elven."

Eliot is so tempted to try and flip his hand around and go for kissing Elrond's hand, but decided that would be too gauche. He recognizes the name, of course, but decides fanboi'ing would be even more gauche.

Smiling broadly, he does say, "A pleasure to meet you. Do you do calligraphy then? Would like a seat?"

"Thank you," Elrond answers, effortlessly arranging his robes around him. "And yes and no? The letters are not familiar but writing with ink and a brush or a quill is."

{ooc: slows? Bedtime!}

"I have extra paper if you'd like to use any of my tools here. My ink isn't as expansive in variety, but I am sure Bar could provide."

[OOC: Sounds good. Sleep well.]

Edited 2017-02-13 23:06 (UTC)

Elrond smiles.

"Why, thank you," he replies. "I've always found writing soothing."

He gets settled with a piece of paper, a quill, and a nice, deep blue ink.

He has a sure hand
And long hand tengwar is beautiful.

Eliot might be keeping an eye on how he is drawing the lovely script. It's prevalent in his world, to a degree, but he's never seen an elven hand draw it.

"That is some lovely script," he says after a few moments of working (and watching) in silence. "If it isn't too forward of me, is it permissible for me to learn it? If so, I understand."

"Of course," Elrond replies readily.
"There is nothing secret to it. Let's see, if I write the letters down in order here and leave space beneath?"

He has taught both children and adults before.

"Why don't we grab a new sheet, so you may continue your piece later," Eliot says, fanning his pages to dry the ink a bit so he can set it aside and make room. He'll have to figure out how closely the alphabets align later. "Here we are..."

"Thank you," Elrond says as he quickly but carefully writes out every single character of tengwar.

"Here you go."

"Such a beautiful alphabet!" Eliot says with obvious delight. He does hope he is understanding it enough that it will carry beyond the bar's magic. "Are there any combined forms I should know about or is that a more advanced point to tackle once I have this down?"

As he speaks, he pulls out a fresh sheet of paper to begin practicing the characters.

Someone is perusing his limericks from over his shoulder. She's sorry for the wave of cold air.

Well, no, she isn't, but she can pretend to be.

Maybe.

Mostly she's nosy and appreciates a good limerick.

The limericks are good and creative, if at times seemingly physically impossible. It should also be said that his Russian, if you'll pardon the pun, is wooden, stiff, and very American. It is sad.

As to the man himself, he reacts to the cold first, turning towards it and finding a woman very much in his personal space. He starts, pulling his hand over his heart (careful not to get ink on the fabulous shirt), and says, "Oh dear!" in a very dramatic fashion.

Edited 2017-02-14 16:16 (UTC)

"Not quite." Katya grins brightly, her perpetually messy ponytail and favorite jeans jacket (the one that no one managed to stop her from bedazzling) making her look like a teenager... if it wasn't for the eyes, the eyes aren't right. She's bedecked in her perpetual array of silver from the bangles on her wrists to the numerous (and in varying shades of tacky, some just being ancient tacky) necklaces to the glittery earrings.

"I like the one about the seamstress. The ending is unexpected - unusual for a limerick."

All evidence points to one who is likely very magical, if not non human. He decides to tread carefully. The fashionista in him starts to roll his eyes at all the bangles but he quickly shushes him, just in case she can read minds or is empathetic.

"Thank you." He looks back to the paper to find the one she's speaking of and sees it's the Russian. "I am not sure if that was a happy accident, however. My Russian isn't so good. Not many wards are taught in that language at my school. I can't tell if it's the Russians being stingy or my school being snobby. Probably both."

Sinric peers, able to read several of the languages. And then giggles. "And interesting exercise. Or is it a spell?"

Instead of answering, Eliot opens his arms for a hug. "Sinric!, so good to see you!"

Once the hug is out of the way, assuming Sinric accepts, he pats the seat next to him and set the quill aside (after dabbing at the ink at the tip). "I am practicing my calligraphy for a mid-term. No spell, just warming up the fingers and brushing off the cobwebs."

A hug Sinric goes very willingly into, and returns with joy. He sits by Eliot's side, tucked close and comfortable. "It's beautiful. Even if the subject matter is somewhat sillier than the art implies."

"I've always loved calligraphy, the art of it. I have little skill myself. I can read and write a dozen languages but neatly, not as art."

"Oh, thank you!" Eliot beams. "Keep flattering me and I may have to give you this when I've finished."

"But how have you been?"

"Shall I praise your art in florid tones? Then I should waste my breath as all complements pale before the truth of it." He intones with an entertainer's patter and a playful smile.

"I'm well. I have been exploring my magic here where I can do so safely. Not all of it is gentle or kind. Some I've discovered can be quite... powerful. More so than I dare use."

There is a priest passing with a mug of tea in hand, and when he passes Eliot and sees his writing, he lifts both eyebrows at him.

Of course priests need to learn ancient Greek, and Hebrew, in the course of their studies.

Eliot catches sight of the eyebrows and grins.

"Much more interesting than just writing the alphabets."

"Interesting choice of text, though," the priest says. "Any special reason?"

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