milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOM: The Dark Portal is destroyed and the forces of Azeroth must seek shelter on the world of Draenor.]

The Door does not open.

Instead there's a flash of purple light in the form of concentric, oval rings. An older man in dusty blue and silver robes and holding a staff appears at the center of them and for a moment he looks terribly confused. His eyes start to glow the same shade of purple as he looks around, stopping when he spots the Window. The glow fades as his mouth falls open.

Then he grins. "Ha HA! I knew it! Modera owes me a drink!"

[OOC: Open all weekend!]

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"I keep the balance," says Death, "I am one of the oldest things in my universe, and I suspect I will be one of the last to exist."

He cocks his head, "And I do not like the undead, they are an abomination."

Balance he can understand. Not liking the undead is a bonus, too.

"...you are saying you're the force of death itself?"

It's starting to click a bit.

"It seems you are smarter than most people here," says Death, "Hungry?"

It's nigh incomprehensible to him. If one were to look at the cosmology chart of the forces of Warcraft, Death is two tiers above anything Azeroth is even aware of. The idea that something that fundamental is aware is mind-boggling.

"...yes," he says weakly, feeling like lying would be a bad idea.

"Good," says Death, "Ask the Bar for something. The fried paradoxes are quite good, but I really like fried pickle chips and beer."

He pops another pickle chip into his mouth.

"A glass of Dalaran red?" He could really use a drink. He's impressed by the construct and the instantaneous delivery and drinks probably more of the glass than he should in one go.

"I don't...I have never met anything like you before," he admits.

A small napkin with a note scribbled on it appears on the surface of the Bar.

"I forgot to mention that the Bar is sentient," says Death, "I dare say you probably haven't met anything like her before either."

He pats her polished surface with affection.

"Truly sentient?" A bit of his normal curiosity works its way into his voice. Only a few people have come even close to constructs that can act beyond their programming. "That's quite impressive." He pauses, considering. "Did you make her?"

Does Death create things at all?

"No," says Death, "And she is quite impressive."

He's still wary but magical constructs are something he's quite familiar with.

"Can she provide anything?"

That would be truly impressive if so. There's usually a limit on what mages can conjure.

A note pops up on the bartop written in whatever language Khadgar reads.

Not living things

Khadgar reads many languages! But this is probably Common, which may look a little runic to Death.

He reads the note curiously. "But if I were to need, say, crushed and purified amethysts- oh!" A jar of glittering purple dust appears, much to his delight. "Oh, that's marvelous. I'll keep that in mind, thank you."

You're welcome.

Edited 2018-01-22 01:39 (UTC)

"Keep in mind that nothing is for free," says Death.

Khadgar gives him a sharp look. "Keeping the balance?"

He fishes his gold pouch out of a pocket and places a few pieces on Bar's surface.

"Yes," says Death, "And this place is a business."

Death smiles at the double meaning of the phrase.

Khadgar watches as the coins disappear and then pockets the small jar.

"Are you the proprietor then, sir?"

It would make sense, he thinks, since this is the end of the universe.

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