ORIGIN

Vargas had had to duck to come through the tavern door. He was visiting for the first time, or at least the first time in any recent memory, and was struggling to remember how all of... this... worked.

This... commerce. "So I must pay?" he asked, a little incredulous, but he wasn't about to start throwing his weight around. He just wasn't used to people not falling all over themselves, stammering. Not people from the old days, anyway. But the beartender was just polishing a mug after explaining things, and Vargas found himself reluctantly studying the boundy board instead.

"Firewood," he grunted, and then ran a claw down the list (without touching, very polite) trying to make out the rest of it.

"Fish. Bones," came the following mutters, as the extended claw ran downward. Then he stole a glance back at the bar. "All this for a... what did you call it? Ale?" He then squinted along the tables, wondering if the "barmaid" position that Bartholemew had offered him might be worth it, for a few hours, if only to try the drinks.

The place had a nice atmosphere, at least. Dark and cozy, smoky, but brightly lit by a good hearthfire. He wanted to experience it properly, whatever that meant. Apparently with an ale, and potentially a meal. But he had no... what was it, money?

Damn capitalism.

His head swivelled a little belatedly, his multiple eyes blinking as he regarded this new--wait, where was it?

Vargas's gaze trailed down, and would have had to go farther had the split-color feline not taken a position atop a stool. His attention was torn for a brief second, taking in both the strange cat-like stranger and her satchel--and then her mead, with its interesting odor. Sweet, he thought, and mused that it seemed like something Nemean should like, albeit a tad... crude?

"An ale," he parroted in agreement.

Vargas wasn't exactly a purveyor of drinks. But he was now being served an ale, and he lifted it in oversized claws, the tankard tiny in his grasp. He gave it a sniff, puzzled, and wondered why anyone would want to drink this. Ahh, but manners... This one had spoken. And, apparently, bought him a drink! What luck! "It is," he replied; he was pretty sure this place had existed a long, long time ago but he couldn't remember if he'd taken part much. He vaguely recalled it being more of an escape for those harried by a working life, and he'd always been too... serious.

"I am-" and some part of him stopped the authoritative introduction. Maybe it'd be nice to just talk to a stranger, for once. Get some perspective from someone who didn't know his rank. "Vargas."

Now, how did one do gratitude..? He gathered himself in an attempt to appear friendly, speaking with a good imitation of humility. (He really was trying.) "These coins... they are hard to come by? Do I owe you?"

He then took a sip of ale whilst he awaited a response. It was... interesting. A bit of a sting, not like the cocktails his former Master had held so beloved, but still there; a fizz on the tongue and a somewhat acrid taste, almost like blood. But also--wheat.

How odd. Vargas took another sip.

Vargas had only ever been in a social drinking situation alongside Nemean.

Nemean had drilled two things into him. First, he was meant to be comic relief sometimes, not uncommonly getting a bright pink bow stuck to his head, and occasionally wearing a tutu or frilly lace dress. Second, proper manners. He was a beast and indeed a brute most of the time but he could fake fine dining company with the best. He'd always suspected that point two (good manners) had tied into point one (comic relief) by virtue of "slavering murderous monster correctly identifying a salad fork" and the like.

But the result was that for an instant, old muscle memory damn near had him trying to kiss the back of Callista's hand in formal greeting. He... did not do that. Instead he dipped his head low, trying to remember how all of this went without actually embarrassing the shit out of himself.

"It is good to meet you as well. I appreciate this, then." ...Part of him was grating at the niceties already, though truth be told he was so tired from his work that it was muted. He took a long drink of ale as he formulated an answer.

"Curiosity," he answered, with an agreeing and agreeable tone. "The drinks, the food--off-limits, I think--and the place itself. I... will have to find this 'fire wood.'" That was something to think about. He could probably burn a bunch of dead trees and bring them back? Or did "firewood" mean wood that was still on fire? Or magic fire-imbued wood?

...His gaze drifted to the hearth and his mind followed with an oh. Wood for the fire. Right.

Ahh, but--polite conversation, yes? He turned his attention back to Callista, who was interesting.

"You have been here before, then. And... garnered these... coins, somehow? Do you gather things for this tavern, then?" he asked, briefly studying the odd fur pattern and colors. It looked almost meaningful, somehow, though he wasn't quite sure what the split hues represented. "The Palace serves drinks on occasion. The chef can provide a decent vintage to compare this against. But that is... a different atmosphere," he tacked on, and tried to think of how to actually describe the difference without sounding like he was flat-out insulting the Roaring Hearth.

Vargas tried not to wince, and despite the rigidity of his giant face, mostly failed. Yeah. Firewood. That stuff. He grunted a generic muffled thanks of some kind for the explanation while hastily downing more ale to bury said face. Not that, given the tankard's comparative size, it really worked.

He cast a glance at the satchel again, and gestured vaguely to it. "Unusual craftsmanship," was all he said, mild enough that it could be an invitation to elaborate on its construction or source, or just ignored. But crafted items were still a work-in-progress sort of civilization step in the caves, and any form of weaving or leatherworking still stood out, however basic.

Silent, he took in Callista's explanation. So the tavern's bounties were an ongoing thing, then. And what did one spend the coins on? Was the cave system building a new economy? Was Bartholomew up to something? (Not that Vargas even knew his name.) Ahh, but the Palace-... that, he could speak of. He took another small swig of ale, finding that it had numbed his tongue enough that it went down all right, now. And already, there wasn't much left. It was rather... undersized, even though it was probably the tavern's biggest mug.

"The Palace is open to all, provided they follow any rules and respect the grounds," he began, and realized that some of his authoritative tone had bled through. He tried to moderate it, a little. "...It is very... clean. There are places to eat, a library, a theatre. It is the only culture in this place," he added, with a generic sort of wave of his claws. It wasn't an insult in tone, either. Vargas could take or leave culture. He didn't care. But it wasn't like a lot of the other caves had regular television, either. "It has a ballroom," he added, at length, thinking. "And gardens. The drinks are rather... different, than here." He spared a glance at the barkeep, trying to phrase it as politely as he could. He was trying to fit in, a little, after all. "Stronger stuff, and rarer, generally. Finer, but harder to come by. Some of it they may not part with easily. If you wish to ask the Hand for her opinions on the various options, she is likely familiar."

Very, very familiar, if Vargas's memories were up to scratch.

Vargas glanced at Callista in weary surprise. Weary... because he really should not, at this point, have been surprised that there were creatures who had no idea who Aethril was. Of course they didn't. She'd essentially hidden herself away after millennia of rest, and honestly, he couldn't blame her. And... maybe it was for the best, too. The caves would've been a very different place had she been out, about, and active. ...What sort of place? he found himself wondering, then shook his head, with a grunt, to dismiss the thought for now.

He forced his attention to Callista, nodding to her instead as he tried his best to describe Aethril properly. "In the... hierarchy, of the caves, a Hand is above the Masters. There are two, one who visits this place and one who administrates it. Or did, when it was a more active place." He avoided other terms, like Nest or mention of armies, trying to keep up some pretense of social interaction. As it was, he already felt like he should be breaking out a whiteboard and charts. He drank down the last drops of ale, instead, and sighed a little. "She is beautiful, elegant, and has had thousands of years to sample wine. If you wish to discuss it with anyone, I imagine she would be your best option. But no, she does not go by the name of Hand. That is her title. She is named Aethril, though I would address her with respect should you find her." He paused, gaze in the middle distance. "She can turn Gembounds inside out with a wave," he added, without really thinking of the grim nature of such a statement. Because his mind was back on wine.

Nemean might've been a recommendation, but Nemean... tended toward harder liquor. Usually mixed with insane amounts of sugar. And color. And twisty straws. Her drinks were fun, but they were hardly elegant.

...Right! Conversation! He shook his head and looked back to Callista yet again and this time tried to twist his rigid ugly mug into something like a smile. It didn't work.

"Anyway," and he tried to brighten his tone a little, "by 'culture' I do not mean to insult this..." He looked around. Tried to come up with some descriptor that wasn't insulting, too. Failed, again. "...Place." He paused. "Ahem. By 'culture,' I mean..." He trailed off again, claws tapping the wooden tankard, and settled back on the Valkhound-sized stool as he considered his words. Ah! He had it! He looked to Callista, brightening. "Music, history, architecture that comes from historical examples. Do you understand? -Peoples who spent centuries or millennia developing those things. It is... not for everyone. It can be overly stiff. Formal. Proper, and too clean for many. But you will see what I mean if you visit it."

Right, but he was rambling. In a lame attempt to make two-way conversation, he nodded to Callista again. "I assume you have not been to Cepheus at all? That is the cave. Are you young, then? I find that many of those I meet have travelled surprisingly little. Some have hardly strayed from the cave in which they hatched. And you?"

Damn, he was doing SO good at this talking thing.