Happy Hour!

[srspirate]

"Oh Grand Lady of the Mahogany Persuasion! I will take your finest port, and your finest wenches this eve. Start off with the port, and just keep the maids coming!"

A note appears instead.

"'Social Experiment'? Nay, Lady, I think you mean bar tending. But I--"

'ZzzzzZZzzzz...'Porthos blinks at the Bar. "She's sleeping," he mutters, blinking

Comments

[there_is_a_me]

Spoon looks at the specials, frowns a bit, and says, "Protropon. Sommat from when Hektor was twenty or so."

[srspirate]

Is the bartender amused?

"...You're joking, right?"

Because if you're not, and a bottle of wine survived Ancient Greece, you're so buying the bartender a round.

[there_is_a_me]

"This is Milliways." Spoon points out, "There's got to be a bottle back there somewhere. I hope. I like the taste of Protropon."

[srspirate]

...Well, the bartender can't argue with that logic.

"It isn't French," he points out, turning around to examine the collection of wines. "But if it hasn't turned sour, I imagine it would be quite--Oh look!"

HE HAS COME UP VICTORIOUS!

Spoon gets a healthy goblet of wine, poured with much ceremony.

[there_is_a_me]

Spoon tilts his head sideways, just exactly like a bewildered dog, and points out, "Neither am I. But I did serve in Hektor's army for a while, and lived two years in Dardania an' Troy."

[srspirate]

"Dreadfully sorry, what a terrible shame," laments the Frenchman.

Who later recovers with a:

"Oh. You enjoyed your time there?"

[there_is_a_me]

"The bits where I wasn't eating people." Spoon says dryly, "Those were pretty bone."

[srspirate]

"What kind of wine would you drink with a meal like that?"

It's either idle curiosity, or a knee-jerk reaction to OMFG WHAT?

(We'll leave that up to the mun's discretion.)

[there_is_a_me]

"Blood?" he was rather a werewolf at the time. Big, fuzzy, not polite. "Mostly got it out of me system by the time I joined the army."

[srspirate]

Porthos will never own up to the pallid hue of his face, or the way he shrinks back ever-so-slightly.

"And... how... is your system faring... now?" he asks, warily.

[there_is_a_me]

"Sane." Spoon assures him, "And vegetarian. Means I don't eat any meat at all."

[srspirate]

"No, I suppose one might lose their taste for it after, ah, an experience like that," he comments, still with wary eyes trained on the man in front of him.

[there_is_a_me]

Spoon is a goofy looking man, on one level. He's got a pleasing face, with pale green eyes that don't really have any "mysterious depth" or anything. He looks like because his PB is the kind of guy who would be cast as the comic-relief best friend in an action-adventure movie.

On the next level he's someone with the kind of muscles that you get from working a physically demanding job with devotion. He's a goat-farmer in his day-to-day life. He raises goats, takes care of the property, and raises daughters. Almost all of the house and grounds repairs are done by his hands, and it also leaves a mark.

The level after that is the one where the scars peeking out of his shirt at chest and left wrist show, and the way those pale eyes flicker at each movement near the edges. Not wary, not on edge, just watching in the same way that a fed and sated wolf watches little scurrying things that it isn't going to bother chasing. It says, I could, but I have absolutely no need to bother you, and you have no reason to bother me, so we can be

[srspirate]

"How old are your daughters?"

Because that's entirely the only thing the headvoice really picked up on, in that entire spiel. He's a simple man of few pleasures.

Ahem.

He's also eying that glass of wine.

[there_is_a_me]

"Six an' sixteen." Spoon says, "Cora is six, Penny is sixteen. I have pictures."

He loves his girls. He does.

[srspirate]

Ooo, PICTURES!

"You carry the likeness of your daughters with you?" he asks, within a bemused laugh.

We're thinking portraits.