It's been another day, another dollar for Howard. Or it would be, if he weren't a "Dollar a Year" man in his current role with the SSR. But figuring out what to do with the only known supply of vibranium is proving to be a big job. He needs a break. And has managed find a door into unreality, where he can get good beer and hopefully some
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And Mother's just found himself a booth with good lighting while he tinkers away at a little device for a while with a pitcher of beer and nachos for himself.
Whistling 'the world owes me a nickel'.
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"Hello. Can I ask what you're working on there?"
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He is looking very much the elf-lord today, all the way down - or up - to a thin circlet resting on his brow. Thin strands of silver and mithril woven together with superior skill.
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"Good afternoon."
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He sounds vaguely British, but there's a lilt to his words that makes him to place - and up close neither his eyes, nor his ears look human.
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Even if the face is, quite frankly, ethereal.
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