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No. Death is preferable to that.

A dark, glistening brow arches up at Bernard's words, and it's not hard to tell that Alastair is quite unamused. "Oh come on, you are such a baby."

The bard is standing before his disheveled Irish counterpart with his bow in one hand, a quiver grasping his chest, and the heavy, limp corpse of the infamous, mohaired beast he had been invited to exterminate.

The Thing looks one part opossum, one part boar, and is on all accounts hideous and smelly. It's head hangs down from its scruff as if embarrassed, with one sole tusk jutting out from its gaping jaw.

"Well if you're not gonna skinnit or eat it or get any sorta use of it," Alastair scolds like a tutting mother before tossing it on Bernard's desk, "you can dispose of it."

"Lle creoso." You're welcome.

Edited 2013-10-22 19:32 (UTC)

Bernard's desk is suddenly suffocating under the shape of The Thing. Wine glass safe in his hand, he places it carefully behind his cash register. Cash registers aren't particularly lauded for their ability to protect against demonic threats, but he has the expectation it'll work.

"Oh, look, what a lovely centerpiece. Just what we needed for that important 'house of Satan' feel in the store." The false cheer drips off his face in record time, and in a messy spinning of arms, Bernard upsets the corpse from his desk and flings it haphazardly back in Alastair's direction. "No spoils of war left where I eat, how many times do I have to tell you?!"

"At least thrice more," Alastair answers flatly as the musician moves nonchalantly to pull the quiver from his body. The bow and its leather bound arrow reservoir are now taking up residence on Bernard's desk as Alastair seats himself in the empty chair, making The Thing useful as a remarkably decent foot rest.

"I have this funny condition however, it's the strangest thing," Alastair begins as he takes the wine bottle on the writing surface that is already opened, but he pauses only a moment to find a glass to pour himself a share into. When he cannot find anything (specifically, a vaguely clean cup), Alastair takes the cup holding Bernard's collection of pens on the desk and spills the writing utensils with an easy flick of his wrist. "I happen to listen better the more alcohol I've consumed."

Wide eyes. Wide eyes that are gradually narrowing in irritation. How dare you, sir. "That's called alcoholism and it's very very bad for you." Said as he polishes off his own wine glass and then snatches the bottle back from Alastair.

"Now don't go drinkin' all of tis unless you're going to get me another bottle or five." It's quite the scolding, or it would be if Bernard didn't keep eyeing the quiver. "What are you, anyway, carryin' on like you've escaped from a Ren Faire? --DON'T TELL ME you're another one of Manny's friends. No wonder he tried to set us up, he's trying to get me laid. Well, if I told him once I told him a tousand times, I'm lookin' for a summer gal right now and you're not in any sort of summer dress or barefoot, or dancin' trough the fields all a-flutter. Yer just sittin' there like a lump."

Having exhausted all the angry words he feels were necessary so far, Bernard is safe to settle back down into his chair and chug this next glass of wine. And then pour another before putting it back on the-- no. No, he'll just clutch his bottle protectively against his chest instead. Screw off, Alastair.

Alastair sputters disdainfully as Bernard scolds him. Alcoholism? Really? That's like saying smoking a pipe will kill you some day or something, and that would just be silly.

"A lump, uh?" It's spoken on a voice straining for air after gulping the cup of wine straight. There might have been a little graphite residue in there. And some pencil bits. "Funny 'ow you call me in to kill this Thing for payment of wine -- which now you insist I must provide -- an' I do just that, and now I'm a lazy arse. I don't think you even moved out 'f that seat once since I came in! I 'ad to break the window in the door to unlock it 'cos you couldn't be bothered to do it yourself!"

Alastair's waving the cup at Bernard's face, spraying inky wine all over the wood surface. Even the wine is judging you, Bernard.

Well if you're going to put it like that and remind him of all your shortcomings...you're still not getting on his good side. Bernard is utterly unmoved by the display and just gazes up at Alastair, eyes like a momma bear as he cradles his wine bottle. He lets it nip out for a moment to pour himself another glass and then bam right back in his lap. Maybe it'd be safer in his pants? There's been no fight for it yet, he'll save his underwear the trouble for now.

"Yes, about that. That broken window's comin' outta your pay, Mister...Alakazam." Close enough. "Now if you hurry and hop to that window-fixin' right now, you might have time after to make me a proper supper before the wolves come in and eat this kill of yers since ya broke my bloody window."

Alastair nods steadily in understanding, touching a fingertip to his chin as he puts all of the pieces Bernard is giving to him together to form a picture, a piece of art.

Really, he has no damn clue what this strange man is rambling about -- Manny, servitude, constantly bringing up the notion of having sex with him (seriously man, get a hobby) -- but Alastair thinks he has reached a conclusion that might bring peaceful contentment to all parties in this situation.

"Ah, I should get to that, then." The cup meets the desk with a hallow clunk, and Alastair practically jumps out of the chair after kicking his legs up off the still warm carcass on the floor -- which he collects before wandering over to the front door. As he arrives, he pauses for a swift swing of his arms backward. The momentum helps the bard send the front end of the beast through the small wooden window frame, crunching any leftover glass still left of the pane-that-once-was. It acts to hold the recently deceased terror-pet in place, perfectly securing the gaping spot in the door.

"There!" Alastair chirps like a spring sparrow, and he whips around to beam brightly at the shopkeep. Practically skipping, he returns and flutters past Bernard to the curtains behind him. "Y'know, I think I spotted another bottle back there while I was workin', I'll just go'n grab that."

That's what Alastair thinks of your damned window, in case you ever wanted to know.

Bernard would like to say he distracted himself with the power of the sauvignon on his desk, but his curious uneven gaze can't help following his new employee. His new employee who is so getting fired. Left eyebrow firmly in place at his hairline, a constant guard for the suspicious acts he's witnessing, Bernard leans back as Alastair sashays past him into the back of his shop. Otherwise known as his house, specifically the kitchen.

Nonplussed for a few moments, he belatedly shouts after Alastair, "Good! 've got the corkscrew right here so just bring all the bottles your flamingo leg-arms can flutter back out here."

"Oh, no need!" Alastair calls from the mysteriously veiled back room, just before a glassy burst sounds from the depths within. And again. Once more before Alastair returns, in what would have been a flourish of musty green fabric if our bejeweled hero had the arms free to do so. It's all fine and well, since said flamingo-arms are nestling three bottles of wine like newborn babies against his chest -- all with jagged cliffs where their necks used to be.

"So who's this Manny guy, anyhow? Y'talk about him all the time but the place is empty." Once seated, Alastair builds an awkward wall between him and Bernard, and from just over its treacherously sharp tops Alastair raises a suspicious eyebrow at the book keeper. "He isn't some sort of imaginary friend or somethin', issie?" Alastair wouldn't be shocked to find this man to be absolutely out of his mind, really.

By the time Alastair is back to sitting - lounging - in front of him, a Great Wall of Shrapnel erected between them, Bernard has already finished off his last glass of wine. Apparently he needs it. "Oh thank you for laying a trap for the rats out there, it's just what we needed." He can only assume all the glass ended up on the floor, anyway. It's certainly where he would have abandoned it.

The question whizzes past him without making him flinch at all. "Oh, he quit this morning. Like clockwork." A dismissive wave of his hand that, on its return, seems to magically find a cigarette in his pocket and deposits said ciggie in his mouth. "He'll be back later to beg for his job back."

A few drags on the cigarette apparently jog his memory - that and the shriek of a woman at the door who's apparently seen The Thing's corpse. "Oh, so while you're here, I expect you to earn your keep sir. None of tis layin' about drinkin' all my wine. Only one bottle before break, you know the rules." And off he goes puffing and otherwise ignoring Alastair in favor of a book that likewise appears from the aether.

An elbow has planted itself on the edge of the desk, where a hand has become a throne for a beautifully angled chin to rest in. The extremity's counterpart is pouring a cup of Pinot Noir, but pauses when Alastair is given a moment to think.

"Oh, oh I see," he begins, almost sounding affronted. "So your little servant boy's gone and had a fit -- god knows why! -- an' now you think you can trap me in some mundane little shopkeep job to fill the gap? Hah!"

Alastair practically flings himself backward into the chair, head bobbing upon impact before his lips meet the rim of the cheap plastic chalice. "Condolences to your business difficulties, but I'm just 'ere to kill hell-born vermin and drink my wine, that's my keep an' I've earned it. Our verbal contract states nothing more. Let me know next time you spot a Homunculus, or a Tomb Mote."

"Pfft. And pffffffffft once more!" An irate battle cry fit to strike a heart with fear. Puncuated, of course, with a fist in the air, holding his emptied wine glass aloft just long enough to remind himself that he should probably refill it.

That's about the time that the narrative decides it needs more conflict, and a scowling bloke enters the shop. Not content with just the act of entering, he continues right on through several more verbs, barrelling over to the desk and plopping a hardcover on its surface. It's as if he's blind to all the clearly-important wines going on.

"You!" This rising action antagonist bellows, clearly fit to emit angry puffs of steam at any moment. "You sold me a book that's missing half the chapters!"

"Half?" Bernard doesn't even remove the ciggie to talk clearer.

"Yes. Every other chapter is missing."

It's a moment of quiet, and then as the memory surfaces: "Yeah, I definitely used that when Manny slacked on buying toilet paper. Why, were y'confused that a book for £10 was costin' £5? That'd be why. Now get lost before I sic my new servant on you."

Despite all of Bernard's bravado, he actually jerks back as the irate customer slams his hands on the desks and leans over it into his space. "Give me. My. Refund."

"...Alastair!" What a shock, he's remembered his name. And alongside the demanding tone is a note of what an inexperienced man might call panic, the ciggie neatly ejected from Bernard's mouth along with a fair quantity of saliva as he yells for backup.

Alastair has been a simple spectator since this haughty man walked in -- surely a human possessing nerves of steel to nevermind the foul stench and unwelcoming gaping smile of The Thing's presence at the door. Or just nerves at all, as far as Alastair is concerned.

But otherwise the bard has been sipping at his blush wine and arranging the discarded pens into various designs and shapes, before the flames of true adrenaline and conflict lap at him as they impose his side of the desk. He doesn't even respond at Bernard's weighty call of his name, except to allow a brow to rise. Very. Slowly.

The customer himself looks over at the bard, expectant for an explanation. Oh great. Alastair in turn shifts his attention to Bernard, ready to spew many various resistant exclamations, how it's not his job, do it youself you lazy slug, et cetera, et cetera. But! But...

This man's all skin with soft insides, an insect easily squished. What can you glean from this quirky Irishman with a heart of coal and a reservoir of alcoholic goods? "....Two bottles and I'll have it sorted out."

Edited 2013-10-24 01:05 (UTC)

Too close. Far too close. It's almost like a hug. Bernard isn't fond of those. He frowns unevenly up at the intruder, gaze flickering between him and Alastair. The flicker becomes quite a roar at the offer, though. "Two? Three! Three, I don't even care, just get this other vermin out of my shop." Bernard just folds deeper into his own chair, fumbling uselessly after the fag that's fallen into his lap and eventually managing to slap it, unlit, against his desk as he continues to shy away from the man glowering at him.

Three! Did you hear that? You're a witness to this verbal transaction, this faithful declaration of payment. You saw it here first, ladies and gentlemen.

Alastair signs this contract in pure magic as he stands from his seating arrangement, towering over this disgruntled man with two inches to spare. While intimidating in height, Alastair is soft with a warm demeanour:

"Mellonamin," he coos kindly, invoking his intoxicating magic. For added effect, the bard slips an arm around this man's neck, rough but friendly. "Perhaps you should just forget all about this petty squabble and this ridiculous refund, eh? Don't blame this poor Irishman for his ingrained dimwittedenss! Live and let live, yeah?"

As he's speaking, Alastair guides the customer away from the desk and to the door, who seems ever more step-by-step eerily understanding of Alastair's suggestions; it's as if the man's hazel eyes have completely become devoid of life.

"Yes...yes, it is a bit silly, isn't it," the man drones monotonously, dead-eyed, nodding.

"It's only £5, nothing to cry over, am I right?" Alastair assures as they reach the door, patting the man's angular-cut suit jacket.

"You are right," the man agrees almost earnestly -- almost.

"Yes, right," Alastair confirms as he opens the door, motioning for the patron to leave. "Go on home sir, forget about this whole misunderstanding."

"Yes, thank...you..."

Once the man bumbles out the door dreamily, Alastair shuts the door firmly...just before turning to Bernard expectantly. "Three, I believe you said." And funny how there's three bottles of wine on the desk itself! What fortune has Vergadain promised him today!

Bernard is all set to have a "yeah, help yourself to one a half bottles, if yer lucky!" pass his lips, and yet. And yet. There's just something in the way this new serv-- worker of his manages to completely make a fool of that obnoxious customer that catches his greedy, simple little eye.

There may or may not be a faint fluttering of certain Irishman lashes at the door. "I did say three. Three it is. Three's right there." Gesture and all, finger pointing out the obvious bottles. Which Bernard still helps himself to another glass of, but hey, he's not a fucking saint.

And he puts the bottle back down in obvious sharing distance. "A toast to the newly-hired." Yeah, Alastair, he's still not dropping the whole fact that you've been hired. You're a great new bitch and he's happy to see ya and all, but seriously, you're working for nearly-nothing or not at all, and that last one's not really an option.

Edited 2013-10-24 02:15 (UTC)

Ohh, what's three bottles or two bottles and nine-tenths? Alastair might not be a saint but he is a forgiver. Or can be, sometimes, when certain people rub him the right way. Shockingly, Bernard is one of the lesser-irritating people he has met in his lifetime. (The dedication to wine might be curbing that abrasive reaction he gives to Alastair.)

Alastair might fall for the toast in his honor, if he were a duller man, and he is not. Instead his face scrunches in disapproval when he returns to the desk, snatching a bottle of wine -- previously untouched -- to touch up his glass. Red and blush wine can mix, right?

"I'm not your new lackey," Alastair corrects firmly, replacing the bottle onto the desktop. "I've cleared off your vermin, aye? Thas all you're gettin' from me."

He doesn't even sit yet, but instead scans the small shop while taking a long sip of bastard-wine. "Geesh, I 'ope this Manny fellow comes back soon; this place's a mess."

Edited 2013-10-24 03:55 (UTC)

Ugh, fine. Bernard toasts to nothing at all, knocking his wine glass into surprisingly substantial air, and then slithers back down further in his seat. "Oh, Manny's due back in..." He twists about to look at the wall clock. 2:36. "Two hours, twenty-four minutes. Hopefully you can avoid breaking your toothpick legs on any book stalagmites that long."

If he can't, it'll make a great story. And a tragic loss of a hunter. Is Alastair really under the impression he doesn't work here permanently still? What a joker. Bernard's flipping through the till's money when he calls out innocently, "So when're you goin' after the rats?"

Uh-oh, sounds like your vermin-clearing job has been re-instated, Alastair.

Alastair has just launched the last of his cup's contents into the back of his mouth and down his throat, grimacing just slightly at the alcoholic burn that overtakes his mouth. He doesn't mean to judge, but he could say that he's had better wine before.

Moving at his waist, he turns to look at Bernard, slightly exasperated. This man is such a nag! "Relentless aren't you?" A slow saunter later and Alastair returns to the desk to grab at one of the dark coloured bottles lined up before him, rings clinking against the glass like a cheerful greeting. "I was thinking I'd handle the rat infestation just shortly after abandoning this goblin nest and getting blind drunk down at the pub -- which is to say, never." He pours himself another cupful of wine. Seriously, what does this guy think Alastair does? "Geesh, I thought you might be interesting to faff about with but you're just like me ol' grandad who'd just sit about an' yell at the wall. I don't remember you bein' this dull at the pub."

In all actuality, Alastair doesn't mind Bernard much at all...but the bard wonders how much goading he need do to shake the shop owner out of this lazy, tyrannical disposition. Alastair's growing restless and Bernard's a decent plaything for the moment.

How much goading he'd need? More like how many drugs, how many threats. An outdoors-outgoing Bernard is a rare, elusive beast, like tigers or non-stale doughnuts. And right now, the look he's giving Alastair is the look of a man whose doughtnut is most assuredly stale.

"Dull is exactly what you get if you deserve it. I'm sure if you were more interesting then I'd be more interesting, that's how that works." Haughty, said over his wineglass as though he doesn't care - although considering the nasty, calculating glare he gives as soon as he's pretended to look away, it seems he might.

Pfft. Alastair's stupid. Alastair's useful but dumb and who needs another Manny, in that case? Idiot. Moron. Good for nothing but taking out the trash and laying waste into when he's bored.

It's entirely possible that some of that rant is being shared aloud, in a low drawl as Bernard is slowly approaching his usual 3 o'clock zenith of work-time drunkenness. It's also possible he is now having serious trouble lighting his cigarette, largely due to the issue of locating it and then balancing it while he pats down his entire torso for a lighter he's apparently lost. "Lighter!" He yells, and it's up to guessing if he's actually demanding one from Alastair, or just screaming his wishes to the heavens. He's certainly not looking up from his task.

Unfortunately, the lighter isn't under his wineglass, and Bernard is running out of ideas.

It's difficult to resist the smirk that's creeping across Alastair's lips, but he does manage. Somewhat. He sees he's ruffled a few feathers to say the least, and it's enough to feel accomplishment over. To maintain this game of hard-to-boss-around, he's about to turn and provide a small speech to essentially echo all of Bernard's sentiments, when he stops short at the man's impossible bad habit to still seek the assistance of others! It's baffling, and Alastair actually sputters softly at the sight of Bernard flailing his arms like a mad bird.

"Lighter?" Ah, a match, presumably.

So Bernard wants interesting, then? Without forethought, Alastair comes around the till and approaches Bernard, towering over the seated man. "I haven't a proper one, but per'aps this'll do just fine."

He's lifted a hand with the bravado of a dancer, wrist-flick and all, to briefly give Bernard a good view of his nimble digits. The middle one wears a ruby-embedded ring with flowing, smokey-shaped etchings, which glistens unnaturally as he snaps his fingers. With a sparkling burst, a flame springs from Alastair's fingertips, as if possessing some invisible candle.

Interesting enough for you yet?

Bernard flinches at being suddenly shown the tragic height difference of a giraffe and himself seated in a chair, but he'll lean forward a bit with a firm squint when Alastair starts up his jazz hands. He doesn't see a lighter, or a match, or even a particularly combustible pile of dog hair, so...

"'Bout time!" Fag in mouth, Bernard leans straight forward and puffs at the flicking fire. "Tha's better, thank you." And, calm as you please, he's just gonna go right back to--

Wait. Hold the phone. Bernard's eyes fly open and he starts violently, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. Holding it aloft and practically clambering over his desk, he wags his free hand's forefinger in Alastair's face. Luckily, he escapes a paper cut from that daring act. "You! Y-y-y-y--" His lungs give up on fueling such nonsense stammering and Bernard falls silent for a few moments.

And the he flings himself across the desk, grabbing a lapel of Alastair's jacket - cigarette held expertly out of the way in his first two fingers - and grabs Alastair's wrist with the other. He holds the hand aloft between them, the guilty party, as if to showcase it to Alastair. Bernard's gaze is wild on Alastair's face. "You!

"This is the absolute gaudiest ring I have ever seen, you should be ashamed! Where do you even get things like this, gumball machines?"

Yeah, he's...yup. Exactly. Were you expecting him to be surprised at something else? Give him a moment. His brain's running on Internet Explorer after two bottles of wine to himself.

It's a bit less awe and more horror, but it's a reaction none the less, and a reaction is absolutely what Alastair was aiming for. Even as Bernard scrambles about on his desk with all of the life of a squirrel, bounding back to grapple at him with gritty paws, the bard doesn't suppress a thoroughly enjoyed chuckle. It's easy to be admired, but it's a bit more difficult to be revered!

"Yes?" Alastair giggles, pliable in Bernard's desperate grip...but he then stills, stiffly, as soon as he's being scolded. Expression melting away like a dropped ice cream cone on the sidewalk, Alastair looks with some weight of concern at his ring, and back at Bernard.

"That..." Alastair stumbles, but a man who is all limb and nimble like he is regains his footing quickly. A face previously alarmed now looks alert. "I never thought of that! But I mean, it must be so; I nicked this off of a man in Dun-Tharos, said he'd found it in a royal's tomb. Fit for a king, innit?"

He pulls gently out of Bernard's grasp, but still looking over his hand thoughtfully. "Dunno, never thought about how it looked, just how much it was worth. And spawning fire out of thin air, of course; helps out a lot in a pinch, ey!" A wink and a soft jab from an elbow come at Bernard much too quickly for the man-hermit to deflect or avoid them.

Edited 2013-10-25 23:06 (UTC)

"A king? A king where? Why are there more of you who must laugh in the face of all sensible fashion?" Bernard doesn't care much about clothes - that much is probably clear from his own dress - and so even his misdirected anger fizzles out fast. Cigarette goes back in his mouth, puffing restarts, his lungs continue crying salted and smoked tears.

But something caught his attention, even if it wasn't how ostentatious that ring was... He ponders as Alastair jabs at him. "Careful with those jackknives you call elbows! You're liable to slice me in half!"

Fire, he's talking about fire... Why? He didn't even have a lighter on him--

Pardon the sudden crashing, it's Bernard's chair. And several drawers of his desk that he throws out in a panic, in Alastair's general direction but with such a weak arm it's apparently a wonder he can lift his wine glass. The continuation of loud noises reaches a crescendo when, in a shrieking panic ("Witch! he's a witch!") Bernard tangles himself in the curtain as he tries to flee to the kitchen. He wraps himself up and, as he unravels, spirals around too fast and simply careens right at the kitchen floor.

Safe behind the curtain and laying flat on his stomach, he starts up a riotous tirade calling for help but, mostly, condemning Alastair to increasingly creative fates. A panicked Bernard is not a friendly Bernard, but then most of his self-expression isn't family friendly.

This time, Alastair follows Bernard in a distant vein -- or maybe the bard becomes alarmed because he wasn't quite expecting the same reaction as someone wetting themselves just before being devoured by a wyrm. Alastair glances swiftly behind him just to make sure The Thing hasn't returned from the realm of eternal rot to exact revenge on the man who called for the beast's death, and the man who carried out said warrant.

By this point, Alastair gets the full picture; it might have something to do with the frenzied Irish screams claiming him to be a witch. (How silly!) It all makes sense now, but that knowledge alone isn't what's causing awestruck laughter to spill out of Alastair.

It's how Bernard knows he has come into the kitchen to stand high over his body on the floor, at least for long enough before the music man leans in to grasp Bernard by the shoulder. It's plenty close enough to hear echoing against deteriorating linoleum that Alastair should be set on fire and flung into a black hole. "--Oh Bernard, that's just a rude thing to say for lighting your ciggie, but I appreciate the running theme. C'mon, off the floor 'fore I turn it into a pit of snakes." As if he could.

He sees a particularly nasty - although bespangled to the nines - boot encroach into his field of vision just before the witchy hands of his oh-so-fired help grapple at his shoulder. "Nononono! No, you can't do that, I'm terribly uh...allergic to snakes, I'll vomit all over you and explode on contact and you won't have any fun tormenting me in your witchy basement of horror with all your twisted friends!"

Bernard plants his hands on the floor and tries to grab on so that Alastair has no hope of tugging him up - being flat, though, the floor doesn't make a good anchor. So instead he fights to stand up on his own and eventually manages to wriggle, writhe and flop his way up onto the dining table. Because if the floor's gonna be a pit of snakes, being up high might buy him a few minutes of sobbing in fright and trying to light them on fire before they kill him.

Bent down with his head buried underneath his protective arms, butt up in the air, Bernard howls at the tabletop. "After all we've been through, Mr Devilspawn! I give you a nice cushy job and share my wine with you and this is how you repay me? Setting my house aflame and letting me get eaten alive by snakes?!

"This is even worse than when Manny quits!" It's a mournful cry, to be sure. Doubly so since actually, when Manny's gone for too long - more than his usual workday of playing hooky - that hurts almost as bad as Bernard imagines snake-stomachs feel.

Alastair stands quite simply, huffing a few stunned breaths or chuckles between Bernard's strings of desperate wailing. He knows this is a world lacking magic, sorcery, and anything concretely supernatural, but he really can't begin to understand what this reaction is all about!

"Oy, you big baby," Alastair calls on a soft, mothering tone, crossing over to the table trembling with Bernard's fight-filled body. He removes the ring and drops it on the surface the frantic man is seated upon, just before him. "Look, harmless innit? As am I. It'd be silly to snuff you, where else'm I going to get such great corner store wine?" Not to even mention the crime he would be guilty for in this world's jurisdiction, or the fact that Alastair would have to be either hired to kill a person, or at the very least be fighting in self-defense.

Alastair actually feels a bit bad for scaring Bernard, and he hesitantly touches the man's shoulder to reassure him -- though his elbow is a spring mechanism ready to pull his hand away the moment the Irishman strikes, jerks, or flails. "C'mon now, settle down will you? I was just having a go at you, I can't just spawn snakes out of thin air! Talk to them, sure. I can do some magic, so what? I'm no sorcerer, that's for sure. It's a few tricks here n' there, nothing to sneeze at."

Is Alastair downplaying his abilities to reassure Bernard, or is he humbling himself? (Better question: when is Alastair ever humble?)

"I'm not a baby! You're a baby!" Utterly useless scare tactics, said into the crook of his elbow. The ring clatters and spins like a top a moment until Bernard tentatively gives it a good whack and flattens it to the table. Just a normal ring. A normal ring clearly gifted by Satan himself.

The flinch from Alastair's touch is initially fear, although he relaxes as he realizes that there's no snakes, or continuing flames looming for his face. In fact, Bernard seems to calm down and be genuinely soothed - up until he realizes that he's being comforted and he slaps at Alastair's skinny wraith-hand. "So you're not even any good at killing me horribly?" He's taunting him, again. And maybe a little bit trying to make sure Alastair really isn't capable of snapping his fingers and having his eyeballs catch fire. Bernard might still be shying away as he slowly crawls off the table. If anything, he looks like he's sulking, possibly because he's got the adrenaline rush from having been spooked and now isn't sure what to do with it.

Like a nervous tic, he reaches for his cigarette again, and tentatively holds it to the ring. Veeeeery slooooowly he brings it right up close to it and looks at Alastair questioningly. "...Is it broken? Doesn't it like me?" Dammit, show him you're not out to get him, you stupid non-snake charmer with your stupid frightening tricks and your stupid confusing niceness.

It's a miracle when Bernard seems to so quickly calm down, once the reality finally works through the thick alcoholic fog in his skull and shows him what sort of a threat Alastair poses. (None!) The bard watches almost endeared as the other man cautiously tries to engage the ring, curious and frustrated.

"Do you think it sentient, possessing a mind of its own?" It's not a mocking query, but Alastair does laugh softly as he takes his jewelry back. Sliding it back onto its home-digit, he makes slow, fluid movements before igniting his fingertips once more with a snap. He even keeps a few paces away from Bernard until he moves to close the gap with his hand, holding the flame to him.

"Honestly, does everyone react like this to magic? Don't you have witches in this world...?" There's a strained chuckle, bouncing in slight uneasiness. Alastair wonders just how close he came to a lynching.

"It must have, since yours seems to be misplaced." But fine, mindless man, Bernard will now accept your magic fire - fully aware of its supernatural quality - without so much as a girlish shriek. He doesn't even flinch too hard when the spark initially takes.

"Witches?" He lights the cigarette as its in his mouth, bending in low over the ring. Despite the proximity, he can't see any pentacles or any of that other New Age nonsense he's heard so little about so often. "Yeah, I mean, but not now. Not the same. We burned the lot of them at the stake a couple hundred years ago." Casual drag at his fag. That's not scary information or anything, right Alastair? "I imagine none of them ever thought to light their executioner's cigarette for them, otherwise I have a feeling the death toll would have been at least, like, a million or so less."

That doesn't even...whatever, Alastair will tilt his head and leer at Bernard anyway, because any insinuation (or outright declaration) that he lingers in any spectrum of stupidity is certainly not appreciated -- or accurate, thank you very much!

But it's okay: if Alastair is stupid, then Bernard is a pants-wetting baby.

He perks up as Bernard answers, but it's a quick downhill decline from there, all the way down into a deep rocky death-pit of horrible news. His nonchalance is met with our bard's stifled despair, and he's caught frozen in a moment before hurriedly snuffing the fire from his hand, going so far as to even stuff his extremities in his coat pockets. "Is...is that so..."

Burned? How terribly ironic. Then his face scrunches into confusion, a hand flying up into adventurously disheveled hair. "But...but why? What did they do? Something horrible I'm sure, y' don't just condemn, ah...millions to a firey death willy nilly, just for the fun of it." Right?

It's the most nervous Alastair has appeared in a long time, voice faulting gently and eyes flicking about the furniture and the floor as he learns of these new, gruesome grooves and scars of the world he's been deposited in. He isn't even soothed by the knowledge that such a widespread extermination happened a couple hundred years ago; grudges can be held for millennia at a time, easy.

"Mhm, definitely so. I didn't see much in the way of pictures, being as they didn't have any cameras back then, but I felt like believing them." Bernard's not quite realized that Alastair is taking a turn with fright at the moment. He's too enjoying just being able to explain anything to him, it makes him feel important. Instead of feeling like a man who can't create fire with just a finger-snap and since when was that even a thing that happened.

"What did they do? What did they do? Oh, you know. Only the most horrible thing known to mankind." Bernard is shaking his head, he's scowling, he's absolutely disgusted by the horrors these witches did with their magic powers. Alastair, beware. "They thought for themselves and rubbed forest plants on wounds and made...totems out of puss, fuck if I know specifics. But witches didn't actually exist, see. People just made it up t'punish women for thinking too loudly. Or families having more land. All comes down to politics, doesn't it?" Casual as you please, still.

Although now he's frowning, because he's finally catching on to Alastair's nervousness. "'Course, that basic fear of the lie - magic and witches - was what kept the fire burning. So to speak. And plenty of people back then woulda burnt y'to a crisp if you were stupid enough to do that in front of them."

You lost Alastair. Completely.

He grimaces as if his brain hurts, rubbing at his forehead right between the eyes. "So they don't even exist, but millions of people were still murdered for...ah, herbal remedies. In the name of...sorcery."

Good gods. It is absolute balderdash, makes no sense at all. This is a heavy and convoluted subject to start picking apart, thus Alastair collapses into a chair at the table, elbow knocking into it as it plants itself to a cloth napkin firmly. "So what you're really saying is that you've 'eard of magic, but it doesn't exist? Then what about your gods? Where are they? What're they doing? Do you people even have any? How do I even know you're not making his shite up?" Alastair's voice and timing is growing slightly more desperate with every question he machine-guns out of his lips. Less frantic now, but looking quite perturbed. Almost...suspicious.

"Sorcery, witchcraft, it's all the same nonsense." Except apparently not. Bernard's chasing after Alastair as he drops dramatically into a chair. Not to be out-maneuvered, Bernard slams his hands on the tabletop and leans forward. "And how do I know your ring of fire isn't just a trick? How do I know you're not gonna set my shop on fire when I go out to the pub later? How?" He's right up in Alastair's face and hissing the last word when more of what Alastair actually said comes back to him.

--Gods? "Oh I expect they're busy watching the devout kiss their asses as they starve little children in Africa and make people keep coming into my shop. Right bastards, them." Idiot, who actually believes in god, let alone a plural of stupidity? He could banter and rant about the Bible til they both passed out, but actually talking about divinity as a solid proof is far beyond him. Or beneath him, rather.

A trick -- is that what people suppose a display like fire at a man's fingertips is? It isn't entirely far from the truth, but it is only the crude, shallow summation of such. Alastair can't quite wrap his head around what Bernard is saying about this world's relationship with their gods, where one set of answers begs more new spiraling questions. He won't press on with any more queries, not just now. Word of mouth (and a very opinionated mouth, at that) and direct source material are two very different things, and any bard knows that.

"D'you lot still burn people for spawning fire an' rubbing herbs onto people then, or are they going to react as just as resistant and deluded as you?" It's something of a rhetorical question; with Bernard accusing him of being a fraud pulling some elaborate prestidigitation, it's not hard to assume he holds the most common reaction that Alastair would garner out in the open public. Thankfully for him, his skill and spell set are subtle manipulations.

Oh right, Bernard never caught onto that part, did he? Alastair's mouth creeps into a slow, wide smile, and he lets a dark gaze linger firmly on Bernard's sunken face before it finds something very fascinating about the ring he's idly polishing. "Hmmph, must be a damn good trick; saved you five quid and an ear'o yours being yammered right off your 'ead."

What Bernard responded to Alastair's insults with would have been in quotes, if it were the sort of sound that could be translated to written words. But rest assured he made plenty of spluttering protestations at being 'resistant' and 'deluded' up until Alastair starts playing coy. And insinuating mind control.

"Y-you - what, you crawled inside that whiny customer's head? And scared him off...?"

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, he inches ever-closer. "Are you sure you really crept inside his mind and maliciously changed his thoughts? Banishing him from my shop for the rest of the day?"

He leans back and raises his brows suspiciously, clearly trying to be menacing. He thinks he's seen a cop do it on telly once, he's not really sure. The important thing is answer him dammit.

"Am I sure? Odd question to be asking, innit?" Alastair is incredulous, but hardly offended. Amused, more like. Animatedly, he shrugs his arms up as he leans back pompously in Bernard's rickety old kitchen chair, seemingly to magnetically resist the older man's looming presence.

With the flair of a performer, his hands flick up into the air before they dive back to meet in secret behind Alastair's head for an embrace. "S' like asking me if I'm sure I'm sittn' in the kitchen of the most cantankerous man I've had the pleasure of killing fifteen pound demon-vermin for. Ná, I'm quite positive."

Bernard slowly stops moving as Alastair answers. Impossibly quiet for an Irishman for several beats, he slowly looks from Alastair, to the ceiling, to Alastair, to the wall. This might indicate he's deep in thought or perhaps edging towards a stroke.

And then comes the yelp. "Tha's wonderful!" And a hand swoops in for-- well-- a lot of hesitating on thin air around Alastair's shoulders before he pats him gingerly on one javelin-shaped arm. "Now, kin you, kin you do that all the time? Or at least more times? Oh, Alastair, I'm gonna make you rich." He pauses in his abrupt pacing around Alastair's chair in excitement. "Well. No. But you'll make me rich and that's it's own reward!"

He's beaming at you now, Alastair, with a lopsided, almost painfully wide grin that is clearly not used often. What sort of monster wouldn't agree to break the law more for that face?

There's a gut wrenching knee-jerk reaction to Bernard's short-sighted selfishness, the inspired response to exploit him expressly for monetary gain. You know, without his consent, or even so much as a head's up. Alastair stills, even stiffens slightly, but a firm swallow pushes that sick feeling back down to make room to feign a (slightly delayed) haughty laugh.

"Ohh, now you're all fascinated about the magic I possess!" Alastair folds himself in before standing, moving to face Bernard. He leans against the table, shoving one of his hands in his rustic coat's pockets. The other reaches up to scratch gently at his neglected five o'clock (or perhaps half past nine) shadow. "Nothing is for free, I'm afraid, as it's something I can only do once after each sunrise."

Oh, but...but just look at that pathetic grin slapped across Bernard's face - as if it was literally slapped onto him. He doesn't mean any real harm, surely. How could he? He's just a lazy bastard with but a few people willing to put up with his neurosis. The man couldn't kill a spider if he wanted to. ~~He would just rather yell at someone else to take care of it.~~ Alastair could be useful to Bernard, while Bernard can provide him provisions - specifically wine, and access to books that are essential to learn about this world and societies!

A slightly strained look glows through Alastair's nonchalant mask, knitting his brows up just a bit. "But...there are plenty more things that I am capable of, things I could possibly show you, in time." Alastair angles his head down, widening his eyes slightly at Bernard. "Y'know, for the proper compensation."

~~He's not going to go through another Burgess thing ever again - he swore.~~

Well he'll gladly exploit him for other things if monetary gain is such a sensitive subject! God, if he's gonna be a baby about it, Bernard will pretty happily exploit him for food and wine.

But make no mistake, there is a flicker of something when Alastair takes too long to laugh in his face. He almost recognizes what it might be, but then it's gone with the wonder of the mystical-ness of his powers. "Right, course you're a sun-worshipping devil. I always knew that yoga stuff was awful for you." Don't mind his gaze wavering around as though he's about to be mugged, or the back-peddling that is happening amidst what had been a bright and sunny grin.

...A grin that slowly comes back when Alastair comes 'round. "Right, you drive a hard bargain. How about I pay you occasionally, and often provide wine?" Specifics are for the weak.

Speaking of weak, he's offering up what is sure to be the most limp-wristed handshake of Alastair's life, should he take it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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bernard you fucking i d i o t

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