milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Forges smell. It cannot be helped. So do those who work in them. This, also, cannot be helped.

Therefore, it is probably in your better interests not to ask why Gimli (who has apparently decided on a hobbit-sized breakfast today) does not particularly reek of iron and smoke right now. You might find out.

Other things, however, are fair game.

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The young French dandy is sitting at the bar staring at the dwarf with a look somewhere between disgust and amusement.

He for one, would consider the lack of stench a plus. Of course he would not know to ask about it. Instead he just sneers cheekily, from behind his glass.

Feh. Men.

Gimli looks up from his breakfast, and around a mouthful of bacon (no one has ever credited dwarves with elven manners when it comes to mealtimes, no matter how diplomatic they may be at other times), asks, "Yes?"

He blinks and snorts derisively. It does speak.

"Pardonnez-moi, and excuse my manners monsieur, assuming monsieur is the correct term here, but where do you come from?"

The dwarf sets his bacon down and lifts one shaggy eyebrow. "As you haven't the accent of Rohan, Gondor, or the north-country... a world most folk call Middle-earth. You, I take it, are from somewhere else?"

"Indeed. Earth myself, though not of the central variety. A much less medial disposition." *Shrug*

The dwarf nods. "Seems there's a lot of folk from Earth hereabouts," he says. "Not more than a mere handful from my own world, alas."

He snorts again.

"From the looks of you, I'd say I appreciate that."

He nods though. "Yes, many from Earth, and yet only one from my time." *Shrug* "This place attracts all kinds. Much to my dismay."

The eyebrow goes down. The eyes narrow.

"So it does," he murmurs, one set of short, thick fingers starting to drum very slowly on the table. "It does, indeed."

The implications do not go unnoticed.

"I am glad then, monsieur, to find the distaste mutual. It is my most sincere wish to leave this place soon. Though more for my benefit than yours."

"In that case," says the dwarf, "I can safely say that I hope your wish is granted, regardless of its motivations."

It is, perhaps, not entirely rational to develop such an instant dislike of someone. But that would be going by the standards of Men. Dwarven-kind is not known for responding well to insult or slight, however small or implied it might be.

Considering that Parnasse goes out of his way to cause insult, it is not irrational that the dwarf should take offense.

He chuckles coolly and eyes the wee fellow with amusement. "Indeed. My reasons are my own, whether you take interest or not." He replies, as if challenging the dwarf to argue.

"what about yourself? What brings you to Milliways?" *Idle curiosity to be sure*

"I've small enough reason to take interest," the dwarf answers, "save as far as they intrude on my own time and attention. As for why I'm here-" He shrugs lightly. "I'm dead. 'Tisn't where I expected to be sent, but one could do worse by far for a place of waiting."

He chuckles darkly. "Dead eh? What is with everyone in this place ruining my fun." *Shrug* "A place of waiting for what?"

Not a wholesome sort of statement, that. The dwarf files it away for mental reference's sake.

"For that," he says, pointing to the observation window, "to be finished. When all's said and done, my folk will be part of building the world anew. In the meantime, those of us who pass on spend our time of waiting learning what comes to hand, for the crafting and the last battle."

He raises an eyebrow and nods, feigning interest.

"Once that," He gestures at the window as well. "is done, there will be no world left to rebuild. I do wish you luck though. Enjoy your delusions."

"Is that so? I suppose you know more than the Valar, then?" The dwarf's eyebrows go up again. "It will be starting over from the beginning, thank you. Creating something entirely anew takes a lot of clearing away."

He chuckles. "So I imagine. So you approve of this destruction then?"

"Everything ends, lad. Whether I approve of it or not."

His lips curl very slightly.

"You are correct, monsieur." He says dryly.

"'Course I am," says the dwarf severely. He seems to think this answer enough for the man, who after all has rather irritated him.

He raises an eyebrow and looks the dwarf over critically. "Is that often the case then?" It is apparent that he finds this rather difficult to fathom.

"More often than it is for you, I'd reckon," the dwarf mutters under his breath. Beyond that he gives no answer.

Montparnasse places a hand, mockingly, over his heart. "You hurt me, monsieur. With the truth." He snorts once more and snickers to himself. Taking another sip of his water. What is it with the cruel pretty boys and drinking water?

"What in blazes does that word mean, anyway?"

"Similar to mister or sir. Respectful, I assure you." Of course he does not mean it. *Ostensibly false smile.*

His eyes narrow again, but he nods. "Respectful is as respectful does," says the dwarf. "And fair words may hide foul intent. But I think, for now, that I shall believe you- as far as the meaning, at least."

"Very wise of you, Sir." Not that it was actually wise to trust Parnasse. Ever. "Thus far I have no intentions, foul or fair. You may relax."

Trust, and believe, are two different things. One might believe Saruman when he spoke of the might of Orthanc, and yet not trust him.

"I need no such permission, thank you."

"As you say." He nods.

"It has been interesting but I must be going now. Mayhap we will speak again." He stands, offers one last trademark smirk, and walks away without further acknowledgment.

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