There once was a bar at the end of the universe, and there one could find all sorts of mysterious patrons.
Dante found it about an hour ago, and after finding out what the heck had replaced the door to the front of his house, decided to make use of it to confirm his suspicions about his world.
He's currently sitting at the bar, frowning at a rather old book.
Nod. "Well – I haven't seen one in here, not yet at least, so it would probably require going back to my world to find one, which has… associated problems."
"Resuming time on seven billion people who are slowly dying," says Calassúrë, sounding unhappy about this.
"Yeah. And no guarantee I'll find one for a month." He sighs. "I was hoping there would be some books about them, but I can't seem to find anything actually useful going on what I have."
"Maybe we'll get lucky and someone else will walk through the door with a magical fix."
He does not look very hopeful.
"Perhaps if we stay long enough it'll pick up a bit. ... Bar, you're more familiar with your patrons than I am. Am I, ah. Likely to be confronted with more unbraided hair in the future, should I summarily build myself a bridge and get over it?"
It is uncommon, relatively speaking, for other species to manage their hair in the way that Elves do.
"That's good to know. Thank you."
She pensively fidgets with the hem of her sleeve.
"So, yes. Bridge building."
"I, ah." And now she is a shade of pink. "... If you'd like to? That doesn't look very comfortable, anyway."
"It was worse when it was over my face," he shrugs.
He starts to take it off!
The Elf is mysteriously reading this book at this time! So mysteriously.
"I um, apologize for the trouble, anyway."
"It sounds like it's not your fault, if – you know, it's like that where you're from."
His hair seems to be styled, in addition to being cut short. He has no idea what that must equate to for an Elf.
Horribly mutilated and then starched so it's even more actively painful, that's what it equates to!
"I probably could have conducted myself better, anyway. I bet Maitimo would have had better composure."
She is still so mysteriously interested in reading that book.
"… I feel like the exposure therapy might not work too well without the –"
He cuts himself off suddenly, realizing what he's saying.
"Hm?" she glances up, blinks twice, averts her eyes, and then stubbornly drags them back to his face.
"Um. Just that if you're trying to build bridges it might need – that you actually notice the hair thing."
"I definitely noticed, I just. I need to be a little bit ridiculous, first, I will do better if I can feel free to go at my own pace."
"It's fine, I'm Noldor, we're the high pressure Elven society that everyone else finds obnoxious."
"Oh?" he asks. "… I don't actually know anything about Elves, except what you've told me."
"I... am having trouble neatly summarizing my species. We were invited to Valinor by the Valar and accepted, and have been living in paradise ever since. We live until we are killed by violence or strife. There are several groups, I am of the Noldor, we're the slightly obnoxious and impatient but aggressively brilliant ones; my uncle invented writing, for example."
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