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There is a remarkably mentally stable Bëoring in the bar, wearing a fur-lined vest and a scarf (but no antlers) and humming to himself as he flips through a book written in Elvish and munches a basket of fries (still his favourite modern Earth-food). Yes, he's the same one who was out by the lake with the ghosts last night. Anyone who wants an explanation for that should come ask him. Otherwise, anyone who wants to chat can come over as well. Gorlim likes to talk. Or listen.

If you're Random or Ramon, he'd also like to know where his daughter is and whether they've tried anything odd like feeding her ketchup or seeing if she weighs the same as a duck (she does -- assuming it was a large duck).

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"Says who? Anyway, they're tasty!" he argues. And really, they kind of ARE more nutritional than quite a lot of what he used to have to eat in Dorthonion. Like... pinecones. Oh yeah. Lots of nutritional value in those...

"Says a book."

He turns to Bar and kindly asks for two bowls of boar stew, a loaf of bread, and two mugs of hot, spiced cider. He thanked her when the meal appeared, and turned to Gorlim.

"If you are going to eat that, then humour me and eat this as well." His cheeks colour a little. "It is something that those in medieval Europe, on Earth, used to eat, but it seemed like something I remember one of those in my Halls eating during rich winters."

Námo had tried to read all he could about food, and found that those of that time period were most familiar to the memories he possessed.

"I think I could stand that." He shoves that fries aside. Really -- home food's always the best. "I'd like to know what you've been reading, though, that tells you all these things. And you can blame Ramon for feeding them to me."

He chuckles as he begins to eat his own stew, the warmth of the food welcoming.

"I began with reading histories; Amanda was the one who piqued that curiosity when she spoke of her world's political structure. When I became curious about food, I asked the library for books about food, and I was given cookbooks, which allowed me to narrow my search down to food in histories."

Námo stops to sip his cider and tear a piece of bread to dip into the broth of his stew.

"One thing always led to another, a new interest, a new word, a new world. I have much time to wile away, and so I spend much of it reading."

"You must tell me about it sometime," Gorlim says, stirring a piece of bread in his stew. "But don't you ever read just stories?" He likes those best, really. And poetry.

"Oh, I have," he says quickly. "I have read detective novels, which Asar-Suti suggested to me, though I did not much care for those. I also tried to read romantic books, but those were silly and unbelievable. What I tend to read most, that is not a history or such, is the volumes of poetry. Ever since discovering them in the library, I tend to read poetry when I wish for simple enjoyment and not knowledge."

"I like those best, too," he says. "Jack showed me some about wars and things. I like those. They sound true, often enough. And the ones that don't... well, anyway, they talk about gund a lot, which is very interesting." He tosses his head a bit. "What is a romance book?"

He wrinkles his nose.

"They are insipid books. All very much the same, only the names change. Even their appearances tend to be similar. They tell a tale between a man and a women -- usually at odds with one another, but secretly in lust, supposedly adding to the tension between them. Some event tends to take place where it forces them to look beyond their disagreeable circumstances and they declare love for one another and then bed each other. The female usually is a virgin, while the male is experienced, and the metaphors they use for their loving make my head ache."

He doesn't say anything for some time, trying to decide whether to be amused or disgusted by the idea.

Finally -- "What sorts of metaphors?"

He pauses for a moment.

"Such things as 'She was intoxicated by the maleness of him' and 'Her sun-glazed back formed a golden arch as he moved his face toward her happy meal' -- though I have little idea what the second one means, but it seemed silly."

Gorlim would fall off his chair laughing if there wasn't a nice convenient table to fall on instead.

"Are you JOKING??" he asks.

He shakes his head.

"I joke not! Such things as that, or speaking of sexual organs as fruits or pastries. It was enough to put one off of such activities."

Beat.

"If one had not been shown it was more than silly metaphores."

"If indeed," he replies slyly, nibbling at the stew. "I trust it hasn't put you off?"

He meets the slyness with a wicked smirk.

"Not in the very least, melindo, as I am sure you can attest to."

"Well, one must be sure of these things," Gorlim says sagely. "So tell me. Have you any of these books around? I would like to read one. I do not believe they can truly be THAT terrible. Surely they can't let just anybody write them, can they?"

Poor Gorlim -- he's never been introduced to fanfiction.

Námo quickly searches his mind and then asks Bar:

"Lady Bar -- the book entitled The Maid of the Windswept Sea, may I have a copy of it?"

The book appears, the cover art of a tragic looking blond heroine in a filmy gown is pressed against the half-clothed brute of a man as the grey sky above them warned of a coming storm.

"Thank you, Lady Bar, I am most appreciative."

He hands the book to Gorlim.

"Do not say I did not warn you, little bird."

Gorlim holds the book as if it were a dead rat. One that had been rotting for several days. He flips through it and attempts to slog through a few passages. It's slow reading -- he's still not used to these letters -- but he eventually gets the point and laughs when he does.

"This is absurd, Namo!" he says. "What kind of people do they have write these stories??"

He shakes his head and finishes his cider.

"I told you! Silliness. And I do not dare question what sort of people they have to write such things. If I did, I would then have to question those people's intimate lives, and that, my love, would be depressing."

Námo leans over to steal a quick kiss.

"Besides, the truth is far better than the fiction," he says with a wink.

"To that, my lovely, I can offer total agreement." He finishes off the stew and continues to nibble at a corner of the bread as he eyes the cover art critically.

"It even looks silly. Who reads these things besides the unfortunate uninformed sops like us?"

"From what I am given to understand, it is the preferred form of entertainment to those wives left often alone by their husbands, or unmarried maids who do not understand what it is they read about."

Which would depress Námo if he allowed it.

"I attempted to read several, but they were all very much alike, and so I abandoned them."

Gorlim stares at the book in horror.

"Oh god, if that's the sort of drivel I leave Eilinel to find, it's little wonder she's been getting hissy lately."

Námo laughs.

"Your Lady has more between her ears than the ladies this is meant for. She has a child and her plants, her herbs and her elixirs. Along with those she calls friends -- I doubt your Lady reads such things."

He has faith the Lady Eilinel is smarter than these books assume she would be.

"I should hope so! Good lord. I've always thought Eilinel was brighter than this. I can't imagine her descending to such a level. But you never can tell with women, what they'll find enlightening about some things."

He smirks.

"You should simply ask her, dear one."

He sets his dishes aside, piling his empty bowl with Gorlim's, and stares at the Man for a bit.

"I would like to take Lee to our clearing, little bird. Have a proper picnic like the one Ramon described to me. We would also have the privacy of our wintry haven to ... discuss things."

"Oh, yes. I would like that very much. As soon as possible!" He glows back at Namo, thrilled by the thought of having his brother and Vala get along.