Tyrone should get a life, it was decided. After all, that was the whole point. Should the narrative intrude into Tyrone's story, he'd better have something to add. He would have to assimilate into the genre he had found himself in or risk being bumped around into another one.
Zeph put in that the Leshiy's Foot Inn and Tavern was looking for a bed turner. "And you're a trustworthy gent, right?" he joked. "Not the type for stealing bedclothes and linens?"
The Leshiy's Foot Inn, once the men crested the verdant hill sprung up before it and ducked through the door, was a bit less quaint than the image its playful name connotated. Ragged strips of damp cloth, originally a hazard attempt at covering the braces, hung from the ceiling, dark paneled wood closed the space into an almost claustophobic size, and patrons sat in clusters around a hearth or passed out in corners. The bartender seemed to be hiding in a back room.
One patron, swaying a bit and gurgling, sat up a bit when the quartet entered. His clouded eyes crossed, focused, swept over Tyrone.
"O," he burbled sadly, "suitably-attired-in-leather-boots
Head of a traveler, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what was how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?"
The man was swathed in a mud spattered toga, dipped generously in liquor, with a laurel crown around his greasy hair. He wagged his goblet at Tyrone, splashing himself with more wine.
"My object is inquiring to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb
And do not understand a word I say,
Then wave your hand, to signify as much."
"Choragos, you drunk," called the bartender, appearing from behind a row of bottles, "Would you kindly stop pestering the customers?" He smiled apologetically at Tyrone.
"O," he gurgled again, leaning his head back against the planked walls, "Dionysus, thou heavy hand
Another patron chucked his lager at the man, catching him in the ear. Choragos giggled, burped, and crumpled.
Garamon swung a protective arm around Tyrone's shoulders and led him behind the bar. Zeph kneelt beside the melted Greek.
"Quoting Housman again, Choragos?"
The swimming, brown eyes focused on the end of Zeph's nose.
"O hath the old texts crept from my grasp
That I must snatch the breath from
A scholar of breadth so," he frowned, waved a hand for the dropped goblet, "Small. I think I'll go with small, there."
Zeph shrugged, "Sounds fine to me, nobody checks for accuracy on these things."
He found his cup, lifted it to his lap. Sniffed. "Not anymore, no."
"Oh, God," Nate muttered, leaning against a windowless wall. "Not this again."
Choragos frowned at him, his lower lip wobbling. "I used to be a big deal, bub. I was in all the tragedies."
"Big suprise," Nate mumbled under his breath.
The noxious man, still clutching his goblet, slid back up the wall. Zeph moved back a bit.
"Who warned Oedipus about his hubris vanity?" he stuck a wasted thumb into his chest, "Me. Antigone? Me, too."
Nate arched an eyebrow. "You better watch what you say, Choragos. All that Greekiness might get you sent back there, someday."
Choragos shook his head violently. "Nuh-uh, the great playwrites in my arena are long dead." His eyes burn in their red sockets, "I wouldn't care, anyway, if I got resorted. I'm just the Chorus, afterall. I wasn't even a real character in the first place." His gaze sinks into his empty cup.
"Er," Zeph put a hesitant arm around the man's shoulders, God, he smells awful, "There, there?"
Choragos blinks and looks up. "You wanna know something? I always thought Oedipus was a moron, anyway. Hic," he begins to hiccup and slides, titilating, down the wall again.
Garamon marches triumphantly out of the back, hauling a glassy-eyed Tyrone. "Guess who's now a productive part of the work force?" He notices the Greek giggling and burbling in the corner. Narrows his eyes at his two companions. "What did you do?"
Nate and Zeph exchange a glance over Choragos, who has once again sunk to the floor in a pitiful heap.
"Nothing," they say in unison.