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"Well," says Ivan, attempting to lighten the mood, "now we know what you'd look like if you were a dwarf and slightly taller and as bruised as the last apple at market."

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"Thanks," snorts Stalas.

Miles utters a hug-muffled giggle.
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Hurray, successful mood lightening!

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Snuggle. And then Linya lets him go.

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Mark continues to be entirely charmed by Ivan's inherent Ivan-ness.

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"I bet you wouldn't be so quick to joke if your face looked like this all the time," says Stalas.

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"I'm slightly tempted to try anti-bruising medicines on you. Bar would probably know if they were safe, but I don't know if she can tell if they'll be effective...?"

I am not a doctor, although one picks up a few things, being a bar.

"And can you account for allergies?"

Yes.

"Which would certainly be a consideration if someone wanted to try otherworldly drugs on Miles."
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"As long as you're pretty confident they won't make anything worse, go right ahead," says Stalas.

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"Do you do dosages or do I need to ask him personal questions?" Linya asks Bar.

I can do dosages. I would be a fairly irresponsible bar if I couldn't do that at least with alcohol, and the skill extends.

"All right, can I get a hypo of eumorine?"

And there is a hypo of eumorine. "Do you want to self-administer? This bit here just gets pushed firmly against any part of your skin."
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"That seems reasonably uncomplicated. Sure, give it here," says Stalas.

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She hands it over. "It's not a miracle cure, but it should at least get you less bruised faster. If it doesn't completely fail to work because you're a dwarf or a Miles or both."

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He shrugs. He performs the indicated procedure. He hands the hypospray back.

"'A Miles'? Why are we naming us after him, exactly?"

"People who are more familiar with me out of the two available examples have you outnumbered," says Miles. "Also, if it's me, we can be a league of Mileses."

Stalas snickers.

"...Wait, did that pun translate?"

"Apparently!"

"That's weird."
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"That's very weird. But also hilarious."

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"The pun has convinced me," says Stalas. "League of Mileses it is."

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"Well, that's adorable," says Mark.

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"Wouldn't you need three of you?"

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"I'm being optimistic," says Miles. "And still not including you, Mark."

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"I'm crushed."

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"I want alts, but I suspect if I ask Bar all I'll get are groundless superstitions that some people have concocted to attract them."

Correct.

"And I don't know what their names would be, and have no puns as available as 'league' with which to name us in advance."
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"And today does not seem to be your day for hilariously apt coincidences."

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"No indeed. I'm very disappointed."

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"I'm glad there aren't any - I'm not going to finish that sentence, that seems like the kind of sentence that will self-negate in a sufficiently perverse sort of place."

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...Mark starts laughing.

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"I'm here all week," says Ivan, mock-bowing. "Or however long Linyabel decides to stay or until I get bored."

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