The Bar at the End of the Universe

It's a tired and subdued wizard who straggles into the bar tonight, rests his head on Bar's surface, and is presented with the option to tend. Never one to resist a challenge, regardless of how weary he might be, he nods resolutely. A wave of his hand later, the specials are up on the board.

Baby Aspirin
Morgan's Mountain
Witch's Brew #2 (#1 is busy)

At the very bottom, in tiny golden letters:

Bydd y dyn hwn yn talu am bopeth!*

It's only money, right?




*Drinks are on Howl's tab tonight.


ETA: and we're closed to new threads. Thank you, everyone.



Tag: Alba DeTamble

Honestly, he's been making every attempt to be respectable but the problem with that, as he sees it, is that he is in fact in no way respectable. That's not to say that marriage and the title of Royal Wizard don't suit him; they do. It only means that every now and again he needs to dust off that little-used dab of silver paint on the doorknob to the castle -- their home, and whatever they want to call it and wherever it goes or however stationary it might be for a time, it's still the moving castle -- and take a night off from the illusion of respectability.

What better place than the end of the universe. As if he never missed a night's adventure here he stands by the door, hands on his hips, hair shifting from black to blond and back again (someone's had their nose in his hair products again), he nods with satisfaction before heading to the bar. Tonight is an ideal night for a glass of cider.


[Magically Minuscule Tag: Finvarra]

[ OOM: Even in a world of magic, it's really not always flowers, hearts, and candy. ]

There are songs and then there are songs. In Wales where he grew up, most everything's got a song written for it or about it and even Calcifer had the little Welsh saucepan song he used to sing. Tonight, though, after the latest batch's 3,450th self-healing bandage was made and wrapped -- by magic, of course -- and packaged up for the troops, there was a knock at the door that came with its own brand of music. Sophie had been taking a well-deserved break for a cup of tea; she'd worked so hard and now there's nothing he wants more than to give her the news.

And this seems just as fine a spot for that as any and significantly better than most. Magic fairly crackles in the air here and it's a change of pace, one place where the King's minions can't find them. Even if there are a hundred more royal knocks at the door when they get back, they'll have this time and this moment.

Looking rather elegant in a peacock blue and silver suit (a last-minute change) and hair so blond it's almost white (another last-minute addition), Howl Pendragon steps through the door to the pub with his beautiful (though seemingly exhausted) Sophie on his arm. She doesn't know it yet, but he's got rather more pleasant a surprise up his sleeve than he's had for her in many long months.

Take that, King of Ingary. The door opens with a bang that's probably rather louder than intended; one Royal Wizard sets his hands on his hips and laughs.

Then he does it again because the effect is so dashing.

"Aha! Delightful." It seems that Sophie's worst fears have come true: someone whose name starts with an H and ends with an L in any language is overworked. And when he's overworked, his shining, deceitful, and happy personal bolt-hole is a place where he can drink to his heart's content, full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes, Strangian army, King's advisors, and even his soft-spoken and delicate wife. He hasn't been here in far too long and this break -- this respite -- is far, far overdue.

"Waste no time, want for nothing." He's almost happy enough to hum an unmusical little tune as he steps over to the bar, sits on a perfectly lovely stool, and orders himself a pint of cider. What a relief to be here.

The front door to the bar practically flies open; a tall, slender black-haired man with turquoise earrings struts in, entirely unconcerned with appearances, entirely unsurprised to find himself suddenly in a different pub from the one where, moments ago, he excused himself to... what was he doing again? Right, using the facilities. Anyone who knows him might surmise he's been out yet again with the rugby club. Perhaps the words WELSH RUGBY gracing the back of his leather jacket and the somewhat suspect aroma of crowded pub hovering round him -- smoke, sweat, beer, pis, cider -- are what give it away. For his part, he doesn't appear to notice in the least. He's simply slightly plastered and glad to be here.

As if he owns the place, he does something he's always wanted: after a moment's brief consult with (and a kiss to) Bar, he leaps over her surface -- rather nimbly for one in his precarious state of inebriation -- and stands behind it. With his hands on his hips, he leans back and laughs. "My head will ache in the morning and my wife will likely chop it off and serve it to me on a platter. Perffaith! Let's have a bit of fun in the meantime, shall we?" He might be slightly drunk, but he's still Ingary's best and most overworked Royal Wizard: waving his hand, words appear in glimmering gold letters on the specials board:

---

---

"Diolch yn fawr, Bar. You're a lady after my own heart." The irony of the statement doesn't sink in quite as much as it might on a more sober night, but he laughs again regardless. "Here's to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking. If you cheat, may you cheat death. If you steal, may you steal a woman's heart. If you fight, may you fight for a brother. And if you drink, may you drink with me."

It's just his very ostentatious way of letting people know: happy hour (Howell Jenkins style) is open for business.



[tiny tag: gus dickinson, scaramouche]

The door opens on a conversation already in progress, a lot of which probably makes absolutely no sense to those not familiar with the peculiarly Ingarian practice of magic.

"...can't help it if I learned the words in Welsh first. Tri ohono fe. But remember, the important thing is the intention behind the words. There are words of power, but they're nothing if not accompanied by equal thoughts of power. You have to really want... oh, look. Here." Guiding Sophie by the arm, Howl walks her to the nearest table and pulls out a chair for her before reaching into his pouch and taking out one small folded piece of paper. He sets this down in front of her.

"Go on, cariad, give it a try. You've got the gift of being able to tell anyone or anything what to do. Don't be shy."

He has such faith in her: she's as powerful a witch as he is a wizard, even if she doesn't know that yet. Mrs. Pentstemmon, God rest her soul, knew it too; that was obvious from the little he was privy to at the only meeting his former teacher had with his future bride and he's not entirely oblivious.

Only a little from time to time, but in general, he's an observant unrepentant cad.

"Let's see you make that one into three."

Even warried mizards... warr... miz... married wizards deserve to go to their rugby club reunions.

There's just one problem: what will his wife say if he crawls back home in this state? "Wales, Wales, you're too much of a discraction... that doesn't sound right... distraction for me these days. Fy braich: mae hi wedi cachi arna i."

He knows he's in bad shape when he has to remind himself to remove his arm from the door before closing it.

"That's perfectly lovely." Cradling his left arm in his right, he walks tentatively and with great concentration across the room, his eyes on the bar. Sadly, there's a table -- more than one -- between the door and the bar. Luckily no one's sitting at the nearest one, so when his thigh meets its side sharply, he doubles over and sinks into the nearest chair. He almost makes it, too.

The floor here is hard.

"I'll be all right," he says to the underside of the table. Why is there always old gum stuck to these things, and why is it always such an off shade of pink?