Iago, being from an Italy currently mired deep in the Second World War, can certainly understand thinking a glass of fresh juice something rare and worth savoring.
But even if he couldn't, he might still be more interested in the man holding the glass in question.
Iago's had it happen once before, some irritating bastard in fussy robes who thought very highly of himself indeed.*
Iago took a certain amount of pleasure in forgetting the idiot's name as quickly as he could.
This new one has already won points simply by dint of appearing to have some basic sense of dignity, and thus Iago feels it is acceptable to break the silence himself.
Iago congratulates him most sincerely on this accomplishment.
"No, I don't believe we have," he says. "I am Iago Malandra, of Venice." His tone is casual and friendly, nothing particularly distinctive or memorable about it.
Interesting fact: when the world you exist in is a bastardization adaptation of one of Shakespeare's works, and one of his most famous at that, it tends to be the case that the Bard's works don't exist in your world at all.
Which is all by way of saying that Iago's failure to recognize Hamlet's name is genuine, rather than a cover for whatever persona he's wearing right now.
"You may call me Iago if you like," he says with a charmingly innocent smile, "I've never been one to stand on formality."
People who are overly fond of their titles outside the proper context annoy him.
"1943," Iago says brightly. "Right in the middle of the Second World War. Don't tell me how it turns out, I like the suspense."
Oddly enough, when he'd asked the Bar for the information, she'd given it to him. He can only conclude that it's because it's painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that Hitler and his allies are going to go down in flames, anyway. He's not even sure how Italy is still afloat. But it certainly didn't count as telling him anything he didn't know already.
But even if he couldn't, he might still be more interested in the man holding the glass in question.
Interesting.
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Hamlet doesn't look entirely perplexed, per se, but he doesn't look completely disinterested, either.
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The fact that doppelgangers might exist had not escaped him, but coming face to face with one is a different matter entirely.
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Iago took a certain amount of pleasure in forgetting the idiot's name as quickly as he could.
This new one has already won points simply by dint of appearing to have some basic sense of dignity, and thus Iago feels it is acceptable to break the silence himself.
"Good evening."
* The mun is totally making this up.
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"Good evening," Hamlet echoes.
"I do not believe we have met?"
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"No, I don't believe we have," he says. "I am Iago Malandra, of Venice." His tone is casual and friendly, nothing particularly distinctive or memorable about it.
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"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
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Which is all by way of saying that Iago's failure to recognize Hamlet's name is genuine, rather than a cover for whatever persona he's wearing right now.
"You may call me Iago if you like," he says with a charmingly innocent smile, "I've never been one to stand on formality."
People who are overly fond of their titles outside the proper context annoy him.
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"As for myself - simply Hamlet should do. Titles serve me no purpose here."
Especially not when dead.
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"Lovely to meet you, Hamlet."
He doesn't say anything else. Sometimes it's interesting to see what the other person does if the next step of the conversation is left to them.
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"Might I ask when you are from?"
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"1943," Iago says brightly. "Right in the middle of the Second World War. Don't tell me how it turns out, I like the suspense."
Oddly enough, when he'd asked the Bar for the information, she'd given it to him. He can only conclude that it's because it's painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that Hitler and his allies are going to go down in flames, anyway. He's not even sure how Italy is still afloat. But it certainly didn't count as telling him anything he didn't know already.
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