[beer jostles its way from Rincewind's lips into the red scruff of his beard at Jorah's heavy hand, but the wizard's smiling back even as he wipes at it with the sleeve of a glitter-strewn sweater. Less at the story (which despite more than a half-hour's worth of context he still only half-understands) than at his company, who really is quite the good time when he's eased out of his steel.]
Sounds absolutely horrifying, but good f'them. Good on them, I mean, taking things back for themselves. Well, at someone else's order, but y'know. Still good. That's still a springboard. They'll have meat carts in the street and be selling - selling tacky baubles t'foreigners before they know it.
[Rincewind nods absently when Jorah leaves, primarily concerned with making sure his hat stays on his head as he leans into his next pull of ale. The Luggage is still somewhere in the sparse crowd behind him, judging by the roar of disappointment and cheering emanating from a cluster of bikers near the wall. When Rincewind first started visiting this dive he'd tried to dissuade the regulars' inane need to challenge the Luggage to various bar feats of strength and stupidity... but then they'd bought him a round and Rincewind had shut up about it. Oh sure, every now and then someone loses the tip of a finger or is otherwise mangled, but they've outright told him that's what makes the games more exciting. The Luggage seems to enjoy it, anyway, if the insufferable way it tends to swagger home afterwards is any suggestion.
A nasal voice settles at Rincewind's left. Buzzing too pleasantly to notice the voice has specifically filled a Jorah-shaped absence, he passes its owner an absent smile and a half-eaten bowl of pretzels.]
You're going t'want to be more specific with him. [helpful advice from the redhead dressed like the escaped host of a children's show. He pops one of the pretzels in his mouth.]
They've lots of different sorts in these places. If you don't say you mean ale, you're as like to get a pint of their finest mop water.
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Sounds absolutely horrifying, but good f'them. Good on them, I mean, taking things back for themselves. Well, at someone else's order, but y'know. Still good. That's still a springboard. They'll have meat carts in the street and be selling - selling tacky baubles t'foreigners before they know it.
[Rincewind nods absently when Jorah leaves, primarily concerned with making sure his hat stays on his head as he leans into his next pull of ale. The Luggage is still somewhere in the sparse crowd behind him, judging by the roar of disappointment and cheering emanating from a cluster of bikers near the wall. When Rincewind first started visiting this dive he'd tried to dissuade the regulars' inane need to challenge the Luggage to various bar feats of strength and stupidity... but then they'd bought him a round and Rincewind had shut up about it. Oh sure, every now and then someone loses the tip of a finger or is otherwise mangled, but they've outright told him that's what makes the games more exciting. The Luggage seems to enjoy it, anyway, if the insufferable way it tends to swagger home afterwards is any suggestion.
A nasal voice settles at Rincewind's left. Buzzing too pleasantly to notice the voice has specifically filled a Jorah-shaped absence, he passes its owner an absent smile and a half-eaten bowl of pretzels.]
You're going t'want to be more specific with him. [helpful advice from the redhead dressed like the escaped host of a children's show. He pops one of the pretzels in his mouth.]
They've lots of different sorts in these places. If you don't say you mean ale, you're as like to get a pint of their finest mop water.