[ open / incomplete ]

[drinksalot]

Characters: Lancelot (drinksalot), Echo (parallelparrot), Elaine (thegrailmaiden), Arthur (rexquefuturus), Merlin (prophetiaemrys) and [Open to any pub crawlers]
Date/Time: Wednesday evening
Location: Sir Drinksalot's Pub in Greenwich Village
Rating: Low-medium?
Warnings: None, yet.
Summary: TBD.
Notes: Open to having multiple threads.

Comments

[parallelparrot]

After picking out an outfit that she hoped said she was 'fun' and 'flirty' like the saleslady had promised, Echo made her way to the pub that her date was supposed to be meeting her at. She was nervous, especially because Narcissus decided to remind her that this guy probably just pitied her, but she came anyway. Truth to be told, Echo forced herself to be here in spite of the mean-spirited Narcissus made, but after standing outside for half an hour she had the feeling she'd gotten stood up.

Her embarrassment was palpable as she sat down, attempting to smile at the bartender while considering what to order.

[drinksalot]

Lancelot could see the pretty little lass looked embarrassed, but he decided to hold off any prying questions until she was good and situated. A little alcohol could go a long way at loosening a tongue. He tossed the damp rag and dried his hands off on his jeans.

"What can I get'cha?" he asked.

[parallelparrot]

Echo had never been more frustrated by her inability to speak than she was at the moment, when she could use a good drink. It was awkward to have to communicate through texting or writing, but she knew better than to try signing. So instead, she just pointed at something and prayed it was good.

"Get'cha?" she questioned, amused by the cadence of his voice.

[drinksalot]

It was odd that she parroted the word back at him, but he gave a polite nod and didn't question it. Lancelot had witnessed stranger things inside his pub.

"Sure thing," he replied, pulling down the bottle of coconut rum and pouring a shot. He slid the glass to her. "You want to start a tab or close here?"

[drinksalot]

Lancelot had wandered off to the back to retrieve another carton of half-and-half from the backroom fridge for more white russians. When he returned and saw the addition of the redhead to the room, his eyebrows winged up expressively.

Well look who it is. Elaine was standing there, hands perched on her hips. Some things never changed. Lancelot's mouth tugged up in a smile.

"You should have told me you were coming," he called to her. "I ain't got my speedo on."

[drinksalot]

Lancelot chortled warmly. Elaine was as fiery as ever.

"Oi, visiting me isn't a complete waste of time. I'll make it worth your while," he promised, filling her a glass of a sweeter ale and putting it on the bar. A lure to get her seated.

And if that wasn't enough to do it, he had an ace up his sleeve. Well. Not up his sleeve. But in his back pocket.

[rexquefuturus]

Arthur was having a quiet Wednesday night. Honestly, most nights were quiet but that didn't greatly bother him. He'd learned, throughout his lives, to appreciate the lulls. One was less likely to get killed when one was calm. That was a rather morbid thought, when it came down to it. The sort of thought that would drive a man to drink.

There were easily fifty bars between Arthur and Lancelot. Logic was not his strong point this evening, evidently. He slipped into the pub and took a seat at the bar and politely (always politely) waited to be served.

[drinksalot]

About time a handsome fella walked in. By that point in the evening, there was no one else sitting at the bar. What few patrons left were scattered amongst the tables and booths providing a quiet hum of conversation against the backdrop of a juke box playing something mellow.

Lancelot could provide the man with his undivided attention.

He walked over, standing directly across from the man from behind the bar counter, and asked, "What'll it be?"

[rexquefuturus]

Arthur watched the other man, speculatively. Was he-? He probably was. He walked like Lancelot and there was a certain confidence about him. Arthur looked up at him and as gravely as possible, he asked, "What ales do you have?"

He couldn't sound more English if he tried.

[drinksalot]

English gent, eh? Lancelot didn't think much of the accent. His pub attracted a lot of newcomers from the other side of the pond. The medieval tavern-feel of the pub drew in all sorts, but the English in particular got a kick out of his pub.

"I've got browns, pales, milds, and a golden if you fancy a Belgian ale," he replied.