(Untitled)

[pointed_spoon]

"mutter mutterconspiraciesmutter muttersteal the clothes off an old mans backmutter muttercapitalists"

And then there's the clink of gold deposited on a smooth surface.

And then there's just Dworkin.

Comments

[i_martha_adams]

Having come in just after the muttering, or during the muttering if he continues after payment, Mrs. Adams just nods when she sets down money in exchange for her drink and food.

[pointed_spoon]

Dworkin gives her an expression that might be either a friendly smile or a sneer or anything in betwee, but is largely lost behind the beard.

"Welcome to Milliways. Do be careful, amount a tab and they'll skin you alive and drop you from the parapets."

[i_martha_adams]

"Are there parapets, then?"

She thought it was a bar, not a castle. This is, however, making looking around the back more interesting. She hasn't been yet, you see,

"How do they keep people from drifting off in space?"

[pointed_spoon]

"Expression" he says, darkly, because it's easier than bothering to explain, or rather, remembering the explanation, or inventing it, he isn't sure which.

"I imagine the fire would make drifting a non-issue."

[song_tra_bong]

And there's Mary Anne a few barstools down.

She's nursing a glass of sangria, still puzzling over who paid off her tab and fairly oblivious to Dworkin's presence.

Though her shoulder itches.

[pointed_spoon]

Which means, of course, it gets a sharp jab from a bony finger as he's quite immediately behind her.

"Scratch any itches recently?"

[song_tra_bong]

She jumps a little in her seat, but manages not to spill her wine.

"Not recently, no."

[pointed_spoon]

"Good."

He settles onto the stool next to her, taking a sip from his own goblet.

"One would hate to think of bending the laws of this fine establishment."