NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
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"Henry, can you turn around for a minute?"

"What's up, Mitch? Need another beer?"

Mitch spared a glance down to the bar, but then returned his rapt gaze to the figure that had just walked through the door.

"Actually, yes. But I can wait a minute on that. Would you please just tell me who walked into the bar?"

Henry took a few seconds to finish up what he was doing, then turned around to see what Mitch was asking about.

The glass he was holding crashed to the floor and shattered.

"Mitch?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"That's a seven foot tall elf."

"Yep."

"I haven't used drugs for over two decades..."

"I've never used drugs, other than alcohol. Speaking of which, this might be an excellent time to switch to bourbon."

"Amen, brother" Henry reached behind him for a bottle, still not turning away from the armed elf that was just now stalking up to the bar, and talking a seat.

##

Henry had set up three glasses.

"So you're a, um, dark elf?" Mitch asked.

"We don't use that word."

He had set his swords and bow on the floor, but even leaning up against the bar, the hilts of his swords still stood a good foot above the countertop. The unstrung bow threatened to scrape the ceiling. A quiver packed with arrows lay across the saddlebags on the floor to one side of the barstools.

"This was all a lot simplier before that idiot John Ronald Rueul showed up, not to mention all the fan boys who have followed. If I hear that damn Drizzle-name or whatever it is one more time I'm going to explode."

"So, um... you don't call yourselves elves, is that it?"

"Oh no, elf is fine for what it is. Elves are elves, though, and I hate the kids who reference some arbitrary 'rule book' and then pull racist terms to describe my people. I am not 'dark'. You can imagine how some humans would react to a similar term."

"Oh. I guess I spoke without thinking," Mitch said.

"Ideally you would call us tuatha de danaan like all our folk, or perhaps daoi-sidhe for me and my sib. Though I'd prefer to be called by my name." The elf downed his bourbon, and offered the glass back to the bartender. "Henry, wasn't it? I'll take another."

Mitch took a chance. "And put that on my tab. My name is Mitch Connaught, but I have a hunch Jacob already told you that." Mitch held out his hand. "And how should I call you?"

"Sid. That's close enough to my real name, and what I usually go by on this side of the rift."

Sid grabbed Mitch's hand with a grip that was firm, cold, dry, and hard like iron. Mitch steeled himself, and to his credit did not flinch, and even managed to meet Sid eye-for-eye and hold his gaze as well as his hand shake.

"You should tell me your real name someday, Sid."

"I'll hold you to that, Mitchell O'Connor O'Brien of Connaught. Someday you will know me, and be known to the Conclave, Synod, and Councils of my people. But that is something for another day. Until then I think there is a fair amount of whiskey left in that bottle, and we have things to discuss."

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