milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOC: Immediately previous. Warning for, um, meta-Shakespeare geekery? Or something?]

The front door opens, and a moment later Gwion steps through -- without harp, tonight. He says softly to himself, "So different doors all lead to the front door -- how interesting."

Then he turns and looks over his shoulder, and says, "Hurry up, lion -- I want my cocoa."

He's smiling, of course, though if Merlion waits much longer he might not be. Cocoa is a very serious matter.

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*Merriman, wearing dark robes for once instead of his usual academical dress, steps through behind Gwion and closes the door.*

*irritably* You've no reason to be so impatient, harper. One would think you were suffering from acute withdrawal.

"And who's to say I'm not, then?"

Gwion adopts a very serious look.

"It is a noble beverage indeed, and I would not be separated from it for long."

*Merriman somehow manages to refrain from rolling his eyes.*

Very well. I will order for both of us, unless you would rather place your cocoa on your own account. Have you established one here, yet?

The harper shakes his head. "No -- but I thought the established procedure for places like this was to pay what one owes at the end of each night? Or have public houses changed in the last however many years it's been?"

This place is slightly different, since some patrons may come and go at will and others cannot leave the bar and its environs. A record is kept on the board there -- *he gestures to a chalk board where the tabs are recorded* -- and the amount goes up or down depending upon how much the individual owes.

*He heads for the bar, with Gwion walking beside him.* Some who cannot leave have found employment here to pay for their keep. Others...manage, in their own way. I have found it to be a very convenient place for dealing with accumulated currencies that cannot be converted or disposed of in other ways.

*They pause in front of the bar.* Cocoa, you said. Anything else, while we are here?

Merlion's tab skirts the edge of substantial, and Gwion finds himself wondering just how often the lion comes here. He catches sight of several very large numbers, and an eyebrow goes up.

He looks up at Merlion. "That will suit just fine, I think." A pause. "What will you have?"

*From somewhere within his robes, Merriman produces a worn leather pouch and selects a handful of different coins from its depths.*

*examining the change with a critical eye* This should be sufficient. The conversion rate will do for now, though if it were only a few years earlier.... *He glances at Gwion.* I must admit, in some ways was significantly simpler when transactions could be done in barter.

*He places the coins on the bar, and they promptly disappear and adjust his account accordingly.*

A cup of cocoa, Dutch-process if you please. And a cup of gunpowder green tea, with lemon.

Gwion's eyes are very wide.

He looks from the two ensuing cups to Merlion and back again.

Then back to Merlion.

He reaches out with a finger and touches the handle of his cup. It seems real enough.

He withdraws his hand.

*Merriman picks up his own cup and saucer, watching the steam rise from the surface of the fragrant liquid. The china rattles -- a familiar, comforting sound -- as he switches it to his left hand, and replaces the leather pouch in his robes.*

*as if nothing was out of the ordinary* Shall we find a table? I would care to hear your thoughts on Shakespeare's creations. Most of his plots are well-worn, and I am of the opinion that it is almost wholly the characters that truly make his works memorable.

Gwion blinks.

"Magic?"

He's not talking aobut Shakespeare.

*His voice is quite calm.* Something of that nature. Not of the kind that Will or I use, but magic nonetheless.

I generally try not to question too many things in this place -- doing so only leads to headache and indigestion.

Gwion picks up his cup.

"I'll -- keep that in mind, lion." Faintly.

He looks at the lion's cup of tea as they cross to a table and sit. "No cocoa for you, it would seem."

*Merriman settles into his chair before reclaiming his tea.*

Not this evening, no. Rather too sweet-tasting for my liking. *A slightly scholarly note creeps into his voice.* The original drinking chocolate was made entirely without sugar -- that was how I first consumed it, and so any departure from that seems odd to my palate.

"You don't sweeten your tea, either, as I recall."

Merlion might be able to tell that Gwion really does not approve of this practice. Our harper has a very prominent sweet tooth.

*Merriman gives the harper a mildly scandalised look.*

Not this kind of tea, certainly. I take it with lemon, if anything, and that only sparingly. *He sips his tea delicately, and replaces the cup on the saucer.* One aspect of modern Britain that I could never come to terms with was the penchant for sweet, milky tea. They might as well be drinking watered-down milk laced with sugar, often enough.

*Again, his expression is scandalised as he takes another sip of unsweetened green tea.*

"And what's wrong with that? I rather like it that way."

If the lion is scandalised, Gwion is indignant as he takes a defiant sip of cocoa.

*Merriman's air is bordering on sanctimonious as he speaks.*

If you drink it that way, then in my opinion you've very little right to call it 'tea'.

Certain teas are simply not meant to be had with milk. Perhaps a touch of something sweet to soften an overly tannic taste, but the tannic taste is all part of the overall flavour.

*He has another sip.* To each his own, of course.

Gwion just laughs, eyes twinkling.

"See if I ever make you tea again, lion. You're not appreciative of true craftsmanship."

*Merriman's eyes glitter with challenge, and a hint of humour.*

Your last attempt, as I recall it, was abysmal. I think I described it as 'brown-flavoured hot water', and I had not even known that the colour brown had a flavour until then.

Gwion very calmly sips his cocoa and will not be bothered.

"My dear lion, it takes a great deal of practice before one can produce a quality work."

He is not smiling. At all.

"If you don't like it, make it yourself."

I shall. And I shall also await your next attempt, regardless of the final product.

*He finishes his cup of tea, and sets the empty cup and saucer aside.*

"You assume there will be one." Idly. "You wanted to speak of Shakespeare, I think?"

I did. You were in the middle of A Midsummer Night's Dream -- have you read any of the other comedies? Or tragedies, for that matter?

*Merriman would prefer to leave aside the histories for the time being, as the in-fighting of the house of Plantagenet is complicated enough without poetic licence being taken with it.*

"Hamlet. After that I felt I needed something a bit lighter."

Gwion isn't much for stories about dead kings.

*From the expression on Merriman's face, it is plain that he quite agrees.*

Understandably. I would recommend leaving King Lear aside for the time being as well, on that matter.

Most of the comedies turn on love and mistaken identity, in one fashion or another. If I were to recommend...hm. Perhaps The Tempest, though it is not as light-hearted as some of the others. Or The Merry Wives of Windsor, for one of the lesser-known ones.

Gwion's hands, which were tracing the lines and curves of his empty cup, still.

Quietly: "Perhaps not The Tempest, either."

He is making a careful examination of the bottom of his cup.

*Merriman closes his eyes briefly, knowing that there is really nothing that can be said.*

*After a moment, he says quietly:*
'...I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale.'

Gwion looks up questioningly...and then his face relaxes into a smile.

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine..."

A quiet laugh.

"Or an oak-grove. Not quite as pleasant, but it'll do. Shall we walk there, lion?"

*Merriman's mouth twists wryly.* Only if you promise to refrain from commenting on any fictional 'family resemblance' that you happen to detect between myself and any individual tree.

*However, he is already on his feet, and glancing toward the door.*

"If you were to ask any other person -- Will Stanton, for example -- I am certain that you would find that I'm not the only one who sees it."

And Gwion follows him to the door.

"If it would please you, however, I suppose I can restrain myself."

Though he will make no promises about the next time he sees Will in this place.

*With a resigned air, Merriman rests a hand on the doorhandle*

That is the best I can hope for, I suppose.

*Even so, a smile crosses his face as he opens the door, and he and Gwion step through it as whispered thread of bell-like music whirls past them, through the open door and into the bar to fade as soon as reaches the ear.*

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