Drink it if you can//OPEN

The forest held many bizarre and unexplainable magical creatures, but what stumbled out of its bushes might not be considered either. Bizarre, possibly. A tall man in a ragged overcoat fumbled from the treeline and subtly walked onto the stone paths and walkways that lined around Port Albion. He stood straight, uncomfortably so, like his back was being propped up. His lone arm was bent, his gloved hand always being by his ghostly pale face in an attempt to hide his complexion. The other arm of his jacket was left hanging by his side, the sleeve being completely empty and occasionally blowing in the wind. His matted long black hair seemed to be unaffected by the wind however, possibly due to its coarseness and its greasy gleam.

The moon reflected off the figure’s aviator sunglasses, though, he tried his best to keep the pale light outside of his frame of vision. The sunglasses didn’t do a great job at hiding his eyes either, considering that just around the rims one could easily see the outlines of his blackened soulless eyes. The man’s unnaturally large mouth remained neutral, though it seemed that he was doing his best to keep it that way by locking his lips with his teeth.

Regardless of his disguise, Miller was one that easily stuck out in a crowd. Even as he passed by people in the streets, they gave him weird looks. He would have to tolerate it though, because heading back to Foresta wasn’t a good idea just yet. There was something following him there, he didn’t know what. A spirit, a student, a staff member, he didn’t want to know. Someone was after him, like always, and this time they wouldn’t find him. He never spent time in Port Albion, so no one would expect to find him there. So long as he didn’t make a scene…

As another passerby gave him a wandering stink eye, Miller responded with a weak little wave, in an attempt to fit in a bit better. They gave him an even stranger look and began to walk faster in the opposite direction. Well, so much for that.

When he wasn’t paying attention, the moon’s light was quickly obscured by a dark set of clouds. They called upon a rain so fierce that it began to smack Miller upside the face. This is what he got for his bright ideas. Being that it was a long way to retreat to the school, Miller had to find refuge elsewhere. He found it in the form of a strange building he hadn’t seen before. While his trips to Port Albion were infrequent, he knew its general layout, most importantly its alleyways and passages in the case he needed to make a quick escape.

Miller squinted at the sign at the door, trying to read past the rain pelting his eyes. The Rusty Cage. It didn’t sound pleasant, but it would have to do. No one really bothers other patrons in a bar, right?

Miller made a few quick peeks over his shoulders before squirming in through the door. Upon entering the building, Miller took a moment to get a quick survey of the room. All the exits, the quickest paths to reach them, and finally all of the most intimidating people. In his quick scan of the area, Miller noted early on how much cozier the place seemed in comparison to its name. Not that it really mattered to him, he doubted it would be a spot for him to visit more than once.

After getting a good sense of the room, Miller began to walk forth, looking a bit lost in the process. How did normal humans act in this scenario? Well, there were some at the booths and tables already. Maybe if he snuck up to the bar and took a seat on one of the stools no one would notice him. Wandering aimlessly certainly wasn’t helping him stay incognito.

The man in the ragged jacket approached the counter. After hopping onto a stool, Miller started rolling his left shoulder. Plastering his sword arm to his back was nearly putting his arm to sleep. He had to keep it up though, otherwise his cover would be blown.

Miller sat there with his back straight and face forward, like he was trying to impress a drill sergeant with his superb posture.

As much as he loved being a business owner, Daniil loathed working. There was exponentially more intrigue in poring over blueprints and numbers, tracing the lines of a ruler, a curve, notched fish bones committed to graphite. But that, even if it was his career, was not work. It was his life, his breath, the air that filled his lungs. His brother, the heart that beat in his chest. The Cage, the bones that let him stand. But tending the bar, stuck behind grand oak and bottles? That was work.

It was for that reason that when his only employee called off for the night, already running a half-hour late and leaving the person whose shift they were ending in the dust, Daniil had cursed and shouted for at least ten minutes before finally relieving his exhausted day staffer. He had readied the bar for the evening on his own, begrudgingly cleaning out coffee filters and wiping down counters and putting the espresso machine down for the night. He had flipped the sign that informed those under twenty-one they were no longer welcome, dimmed the lights to their most amber hue, disappeared used glasses and wiped coffee stains off tables.

Daniil had always liked how The Rusty Cage transformed once the sun went down. It felt more homely. His pub had only been a bar at first, anyway; its transformation into a daytime cafe had only happened when he had realised the profit and entertainment that came from keeping it open near all hours, though it came at the cost of being smoke-free. But the way the warm light melted against the velvet curtains that swayed between tables, the dull thud of feet on the dark oak that stretched through the building, the low conversation that simmered over the strange music he played at all hours... There was something magical about it. Something hypnotizing that swirled in his mind. Whenever he stepped outside for a smoke break, leaving a sign on the bar that notified his patrons of his quick return, the clarity almost hurt, left him with a sense of loss pulsing in his chest. There was a reason that in his free time he spent nearly every night lounging in his pub, even if his flat was just a hop upstairs.

But sitting in the back in his cosy armchair was a far different experience than tending to customers. Sure, he was used to chatting them up; learning about the town, the school; fielding questions about the pub's sudden appearance and the mysterious work they were doing at the school through the woods. But that was a choice, a luxury. Behind the bar, even if the arching spirals that decorated the base of every glass benefited his work, it was still just that-- work. The accursed word struck again.

So it was with some bitterness, even in the dim of his place of comfort, even with the strange music he so loved swirling around him, Daniil tempered what threatened to become anger at even mild provocation. He would have considered firing his late employee if he didn't loathe the idea of enduring this every night until he found a suitable replacement, so instead he cursed at himself, his usual humming erased by frustrated mutterings. His usual hawkish eyes were borderline cruel, his brow furrowed at anyone who entered. He wiped down glasses with such intensity that the squeaking of pressure and cloth was audible at the front door. He took orders with a grumble, poured with a force that just barely made the glass, switched bottles from his hand to the shelf with a sharp snap and ruthless efficiency. Even as he garnered offended looks, returning them with a fierce stare, he found himself unable to care-- it wasn't like he needed tips. It was his fucking pub. No matter, when his customers took a sip, their offence almost always subsided. Even in his rapid assembly, he was an excellent drink crafter.

It was with that level of intensity that Daniil stared down the newest individual to cross the threshold into his establishment, the ringing of the bell over the door snapping him to attention. They were dark and ragged, clearly hiding something-- between the unkempt appearance and dark shades, an alarm in Daniil's mind immediately went off. As their head swivelled, taking in the sight of his pub, he tried to decide exactly what this person was, still getting accustomed to the variety of barely human and exceptionally monstrous beings that lurked this unfortunate island. It wasn't like he hadn't encountered the strange and occult before, of course-- far from it, actually-- but they were in such high numbers here, unrestrained in their appearance.

Growing up, while he had become accustomed to magic and tradition and oddity, the river-people of legend had only shown their faces to him once, and even still the sight of adjacent beings brought back the thought of their accursed visages. No matter, there was certainly something wrong about this person, between the creeping around and the black holes of glossy eyes that just barely peeked out from behind aviators, and just as he was about to speak up about it, the man sat before him, plopping down on an unoccupied stool.

The back of the pub was certainly full this evening, the tables and couches wrapped in curtains that muffled their indistinct speech, but the bar was mostly empty, a couple seated by the window already occupied by their drinks and a few singles scattered along its length. With a grumble, he approached the newcomer, brows only furrowing farther when the man sat as straight as possible, then further again when he noticed one sleeve was suspiciously empty. He could have been an amputee, sure, but his strangeness was almost overwhelming, off-putting. But still, Daniil put on his best customer service face-- which, at this point, was little more than a slight scowl and knit brows-- and nodded at him, leaning a hip against the bar. Toying with the herringbone chain prominently displayed beneath his half-open shirt, Daniil set the glass and cloth he had been fidgeting with firmly down on the oak. "What'd'ya want?"

While it had only been a matter of seconds, Miller was quickly beginning to feel that the pub was a poor choice. His mind began to race, thinking about the other buildings that were on the street and wondering if they would have been better targets for skulking away. Well, he couldn’t just walk out now, that would raise suspicions. He had to stay put and play the role of bar patron. He couldn’t help but feel he was missing something, like there was a reason he didn’t see other students in the Rusty Cage.

Oh, alcohol had an age restriction, didn’t it? There was a sign outside the door, one that he didn’t really read. It had the number twenty-one on it, that caught his eye, but the first connection he made wasn’t to age. Any number within the twenties always screwed with his head, on the account that for a vast majority of his life he was referred to as twenty-three. If it was any consolation, he didn’t know his own age off the top of his head. Given enough time, he could offer a rough estimate. One thing was assured though, he was at least two numbers above twenty-one.

Either way, Miller remained, by his definition, normal. Just a guy sitting in a chair and enjoying sitting in a chair. What else did someone do in a chair?

As soon as the bartender approached him though, Miller became characteristically nervous. Most specifically, his left shoulder was twitching since it couldn’t quite take both the pressure of its position and the passive aggressive eyes of the man. Miller was not prepared to interact with a friendly bartender, let alone one that very clearly bemoaned his existence. Albeit, that was a cut above most people that didn’t enjoy his presence considering how often he ended up in physical confrontations.

When nodded at, Miller mirrored the gesture. It was a bit off, uncannily so, like he was a beast in human skin trying to mimic human expressions.

The bartender offered a simple question, what did he want? An excellent question, Miller didn’t quite know himself. He gazed up at the menu behind the man’s head, a blank ponderous expression slapped across his face. His lips parted slightly, releasing a low toned “uhhhhhh” as his eyes carefully tried to deduce what he was looking at. The menu might as well have been in a different language, Miller couldn’t understand any of it. There were words he recognized, yes, but what it translated to in terms of drink, he had no idea. He was slightly amused at seeing his own name on the menu, but he didn’t want to know what he tasted like.

After a solid minute of offering nothing, Miller’s head bobbed back down, turning his blank stare back to the bartender. His mouth parted again, releasing a string of light throaty noises before being able to muster up a word. “Uh, water” he blurted rather weakly. Taking his balled fist to his mouth, he coughed gently and added with a lower, yet natural voice “yes.”

Now, he didn’t see water on the menu, so he was hoping that they had some in stock. It seemed like a missed opportunity for any drink related shop to not have water for sale. Then again, Miller wasn’t exactly an entrepreneur.

‘Act more natural’ the voice in Miller’s head commanded. Very subtly, Miller’s eyes shifted sideways, taking a peek at what other people in the room were doing to act natural. He noticed one of the other patron’s leaning their elbow on the table, so Miller raised his jittery arm and placed it uncertainly on the counter, putting his suede falconry glove clearly on display.

Dissecting the stranger with his eyes only sent the corners of Daniil's mouth into a deeper frown. Not only was this guy suspicious, he was weird. Not that Daniil could claim normality for himself-- far from it-- but at least he possessed a tempered weirdness, the kind that could easily be concealed with a practised cadence and a good haircut. He would have claimed to hate this island if it didn't prove to be more and more interesting by the day. At least he was never bored, always on his toes. The place did have that, to its credit.

But this... a simple question seemed to have caught the man in a loop. Daniil stared and stared, tilting his head further to one side as his expression grew more and more impatient. He pulled the chain forward, tugging against the back of his neck, then let it drop to his collar. He resumed polishing at the glass in hand, then swapped it for another with a sharp crack. The man had still not decided, a tinkling of a bell ringing in his ears. Another customer. While the man droned, uncertain how to answer a question as simple as what to drink, Daniil's gaze shot to the door, following the new customer as they marched past the bar and to the back. Once they had settled behind a curtain, Daniil exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes settling back on the man before him with an expectant look. "Well?"

Water. Just water. That had been a lot of consideration, just to order the one thing you only had to flick a tap to get for free. With a frustrated sigh, Daniil tossed his rag on the counter and pushed open the icebox, scooping cubes into the glass. Swiping the hose from its place near his hip, he sprayed the glass full, staring down this stranger the whole time. "One ice water, coming up," he grumbled, putting the hose back in its place before tossing a coaster on the bar, setting the glass on top. Condensation quickly pooled on its surface, leaving the tips of Daniil's fingers moist. "Unless you're waiting for someone, I'm gonna need you to buy something if you want to hang around." He picked up the cloth again, wiping off his hands before plucking a straw from a box under the bar and tossing it in the man's direction.

"And no more fucking ruminating!" he added, slapping the cloth back on the bar. "I'll pick for you, if I gotta. And no, we don't serve food." Picking the cloth back up again, Daniil slung it over his shoulder, then nodded to the display of chips that hung from hooks behind him. "There's your other option. Now tell me..." His curiosity was getting the best of him, he realised. He didn't quite intend the aggression in his voice, but still, it dripped. "... what the hell is your deal?" The question hung in the air, even more pressing as the individual lifted a hand to display a falconry glove. Who went around wearing birding gloves in this weather? Had he waltzed his way into dreamland or something? Sucked down one too many shots? Never before had Daniil wished so strongly to be anywhere but here. The allure of his flat upstairs was powerful. Swipe a bottle, collapse on the couch, pass out sprawled across his sheets... yeah. That would have been a far superior alternative to... this.

When the glass of water was presented to him, Miller’s eyes gleamed a bit. How magical, he asked for something and he got it. Things very rarely worked that way. He honestly didn’t expect to see a glass of water after he asked for it, on the account of his own foul luck and the disposition that the bartender held. He didn’t reach for it though, uncertain of when was the appropriate time to claim the drink as his own and whether that would offend the man. That would have normally been a minor anxiety of his, but the situation called for that to be boosted up to eleven.

Of course, Miller’s selection of drink wasn’t enough for the bartender. He demanded more from him. Though, this time requested for less ‘ruminating.’ Miller didn’t know what that word meant and he really didn’t want to get on the bartender’s bad side, despite the fact that he already seemed to be there. His thinly lips retreated into his mouth as he went walleyed, trying very hard not to focus on anything in specific in case that was the meaning of the word he didn’t understand.

While Miller’s present personality was nervously sweating over the man’s gaze, his other was lamenting it. ‘He wouldn’t speak so boldly with a blade rammed through his chest’ the voice echoed through his mind. A gory image of the bartender pinned to the wall flashed through his mind for a split second, but it was enough time to cause him to wince weakly. The back of his throat felt ready to gag, but he swallowed it back to prevent making a scene. ‘She would have relished the idea.’ Miller’s left arm tensed up then, specifically to keep the blade pasted to his back. The other voice was trying to goad him again. He had to ignore it with all his might. What happened at the barn couldn’t be repeated, ever again.

With an uneasy release of breath from his nose, Miller’s head dipped a bit, causing him to hunch over. He did this because he was nervous, a natural instinct for him to show his inherit weakness like a dog bowing its head to whimper. Unfortunately, this choice of posture was not the best for his current situation. His blade was perfectly concealed in the back of his jacket when he was seated upright, but he wasn’t seated upright anymore. His unintentional posture would reveal the shiny tip of his blade poking out the back of his collar.

The man had an ultimatum, buy something or leave. Well, unless he was waiting for someone, which was actually the opposite of what he was doing. Luckily, the man made it easy for him and pointed out a snack he could buy. A simple solution. If he bought the snack, then the bartender might leave him be and it would equally buy him more time to skulk about. All he had to do was brave the encounter just a few more moments. He only had to endure the harsh scornful gaze of the man a little longer, then he’d be free. He just had to get there.

Miller pointed to the chip rack, at no one specific bag. “One of those… yes” he replied to the man rather sheepishly.

As for the mode of payment, Miller didn’t have any source of income. However, he did collect coins off the street and around the school. If there was ever one thing that Miller was good at, it was collecting discarded junk. He reached into his pocket and out came a handful of various coins and a few buttons. He placed them on the countertop, allowing them to spread along its surface. He peered down at his collection, then back at the bartender with wide eyes and a genuinely lost expression. “Is… uh, is that enough?”

At the man’s final question, Miller was left speechless for a moment. His eyes blinked in rapid succession, looking at nothing in particular except maybe at his own nose. His mouth fell open then, letting out a few elongated breaths before returning his gaze to the man again. He didn’t really know how to answer his question, so he did his best. “I uh… I don’t deal, sorry” he answered, his mystification being clear on both his face and his tone. He didn’t understand the implication of his own words, but that was fine, he wasn’t quite clear on what the bartender meant either.

Miller had to wonder, since this was essentially his first experience with the service industry, were they always so passive/active aggressive? Was this a thing that all humans had to go through when dealing with customer service? Why did they put up with it? Better question, how did they get through it on a day to day basis? Maybe they liked it.