Fandral had not been to Midgard enough to bother with the local fashions. Even if he had come more frequently, it would not have dissuaded him from his fine armor, rich tunic, and his mustache that was carefully plucked and positioned upwards. After all, what did it matter to him if Midgardian fashion was so woefully crude?
And yet somehow, his adventures had brought him to a bar. He did not recall what the city was called, but he and his fellow warriors had vanquished a great foe only miles at the city's outskirts. They returned home victorious. Fandral, ever persistent and too curious for his own good, had stopped here to drink, boast, and impress any woman who would grant him attention.
But first, he needed a drink. He slapped down a large, golden coin onto the counter. "Bring me your finest ale!"
She probably should have managed something a little more articulate in the face of a space viking. And let's be real, she lives in New Orleans. She's probably seen a lot stranger things. But in the moment of it all, with the space viking trying to pay her in large gold coins that she's pretty sure aren't an acceptable form of currency in any bar in the immediate vicinity, she's a little flabbergasted.
It takes her a moment, but she eventually snaps out of it and reaches for one of the empty beer glasses behind the bar. At least she has enough sense to know that ale = beer.
He tasted the beer and let the taste linger in his mouth. His frown was disapproving for a moment, but he took another drink and seemed content to not complain about the inferior quality of the drink. He instead turned his attention to the barmaid and smiled kindly to her.
"Your service is most timely, dear lady. Are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?"
"Proprietor? No. No, I'm just the bartender. The proprietor ... "
Is dead. Well, maybe she is the proprietor. It's still owned by the Devereaux family, but she's the reason it's still running. That counts for something at least - but she's not going to tell Renaissance Faire Guy that.
no subject
And yet somehow, his adventures had brought him to a bar. He did not recall what the city was called, but he and his fellow warriors had vanquished a great foe only miles at the city's outskirts. They returned home victorious. Fandral, ever persistent and too curious for his own good, had stopped here to drink, boast, and impress any woman who would grant him attention.
But first, he needed a drink. He slapped down a large, golden coin onto the counter. "Bring me your finest ale!"
no subject
She probably should have managed something a little more articulate in the face of a space viking. And let's be real, she lives in New Orleans. She's probably seen a lot stranger things. But in the moment of it all, with the space viking trying to pay her in large gold coins that she's pretty sure aren't an acceptable form of currency in any bar in the immediate vicinity, she's a little flabbergasted.
It takes her a moment, but she eventually snaps out of it and reaches for one of the empty beer glasses behind the bar. At least she has enough sense to know that ale = beer.
"Right. One ale, coming up."
no subject
"Your service is most timely, dear lady. Are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?"
no subject
Is dead. Well, maybe she is the proprietor. It's still owned by the Devereaux family, but she's the reason it's still running. That counts for something at least - but she's not going to tell Renaissance Faire Guy that.
" ... she's not here right now."