The Bar at the End of the Universe

Sleep having abandoned him at an entirely unfair hour, Miles is in the bar, seated at a table far enough from the main thoroughfares to allow for a slightly reduced chance that it will be jostled by random passersby. He is playing with toy soldiers in the self-conscious way that a man of thirty tends to reclaim a childhood hobby: sheepish but resolute. It is not playing, it is modeling.

He is modeling a ground assault on his otherwise untouched wine bottle.

(OOC: Out of Milliways Post)

Miles steps in from outside, and pauses a moment to blink the outdoor light from his eyes. Dressed formally, in a suit that conceals the abnormalities of his short frame, he seems momentarily at a loss. But he grounds himself quickly. He jerks his chin up, tugs his jacket down smooth, and adjusts the gold auditor's chain of office around his neck. Forward momentum; don't let them see you blink -- he strides forward as if the place belonged to him.

To the Bar he moves, shrugging off his jacket and swinging it over the seat beside him. He leans forward, raps two knuckles lightly on the Bar top, and orders, "Maple mead." A taste of home in a far place. The drink materializes. Immediate tactics executed, it is time for strategy. He gazes around the room. Thinking.