Disclaimer: As you can probably guess, I own none of these characters. Their respective rights belong to their respective owners… yada yada ya…

Here we go!

The bar is one of the oldest and most acceptable places of social gathering and social convenience.

This is true in Estarcion. This is true in the British Isles. This is true in Temerant. It is true in every countless continent and land from the Yankee frontier to Asgard.

This is fact in Japan. This is fact in Russia, both old and Soviet. This is fact in the Feldwar States. It is fact in every nation from Andor to Vintas.

This is certain in New York. This is certain in Iest. This is certain in Illian. It is certain in every city, town, and municipality from Palnu to Tokyo.

And it was true, fact, and certain in the drinking establishment–which was by vague local terminology, more of a "tavern" than a "bar"– in which our story begins.

–––––––

The wheel of time turned on our tavern's lone customer, who stood at 5 hands high, and almost 6 when he had his helmet. And sitting down, that figure was much shorter.

Most of his features were difficult to make out in the room's poor lighting, but he was covered in gray fur. The fur directly under his long, wide snout was covered in shadow, which in the dim building was hardly apparent. The only clothing he wore was a black vest and an array of medallions painted with the colors of a merchant's guild stretched across his torso.

There was also his short sword and sheath, which was clothing of a sort…

His now unadorned head held two large ears, below which were a pair of huge, connected eyes, and below those were, on the lateral sides of his face, the two connected openings of a jawless mouth.

He was, in short…

"Hey barkeep!" he shouted. "Cerebus hasn't had his mug refilled since the Trolloc Wars!"

Cerebus the Aardvark. Uncut, uncensored, and third-person.

"Oy'm coomin'. Oy'm coomin'." reassured the bartender, shuffling across the creaky floorboards.

The bartender's thick, black bangs entirely covered his eyes and forehead, so it was anyone's guess as to how he actually maintained any of the peripheral vision needed to bartend, let alone see straight in front of him. They went along well with his conspicuously formal tuxedo suit, though.

Set somehow, he did his job rather competently, and had a reasonable excuse for his uncharacteristic delay of service.

"Sawee. Oy joost had t' ooze t' crappuh." he said, retrieving Cerebus' mug. The dissatisfied customer cursed under his breath the pains of green bartenders.

"Anoother ayyle?"

"Aye." said Cerebus flatly. Upon a moment's consideration, he adjusted his request. "Actually… have you got any scotch?"

"Lemee cheyk here…" The bartender methodically examined the barrels. The findings corresponded with a resurfaced memory. "Yeeep… we joost gawt anoother sheepment 'dis mornin'."

"Perfect. Fill Cerebus mug still it spills."

Complying with the instructions, the bartender filled the mug with sin until the foam spilled off the edges. Were it any other customer, the young Richard George would be sure to serve the drink as soon as the foam began to rise, shielding a low quantity of booze from prying and paying eyes.

But the glint of the sword reflecting off of the aardvark's blade (which, yes, he was capable of seeing through his thick bangs), stayed his hand, literally and figuratively, as he waited for the foam to condense and to continue distilling.

The honest work done, he presented the conception to his sole clientele, who, without a word of thanks, began to down the beverage. After only a few seconds, it was gone, and it was a few seconds later until a single copper coin was dropped onto the counter, perhaps as an afterthought.

"More." said Cerebus.

"Coomin' ryyye up…" replied the bartender, almost merrily.

–––––––

The notice from the fire department on the tavern wall indicated that the building had a maximum occupancy of 150. This was considered fairly reasonable by all parties involved, and was rather generously altered following the establishment's hosting of the fire department weekend drinking party.

It was currently 147 occupants away from maximum capacity.

One was the sole customer. One was the novice bartender. And the other…

Seated by himself without a table against the wall at the far side of the room, his body seemed almost more coated in shadow than the rest of the poorly-lit bar. Anything beyond his black sailor's cap perched above a cracked-lip, all-knowing smile of either content or despair was impossible to distinguish.

Despite the best efforts of Cerebus, coupled with his considerable lessons and tutoring from experience, he often couldn't help but have a sense of curiosity. It usually got him into trouble. In fact, it always got him into trouble, even when it yielded seemingly beneficial fruit.

But coming upon him again, he yielded with a breathless sigh.

"Who the hell is the guy in the back?" whispered Cerebus to the bartender, gesturing to the loner.

"Oy 'eem?" the bartender scratched his head. "He oozally cooms by fuh a drink. …oar two… or thray… or a lotta 'dem really. Bud t'day…" He gave a breath-filled sigh. "Oy joost doyn't know why, bud 'e's joost… siddin' dey'er."

"Well, Cerebus doesn't care to know why. Cerebus just wants to drink himself into some much needed peace and quiet." With a determined grunt, Cerebus resumed his embrace of alcohol.

At the far side of the room, the man's all-knowing-smile-of-either-content-or-despair creased just a little more outward, as if it were trying to comment on the aardvark's good taste in scotch.

–––––––

Richard George scanned the bar mournfully, his bang-shrouded head rested atop an elbow on the counter. There were usually more customers, but something was drawing the usual clientele away. An event? A special occasion?

He scratched his bangs quizzically. The Royal Palnu Festival of Petunias was not until spring, and so was the competing Hyrule Holiday of Hydrangeas. So what could it be that was staying the usual crowd of boozers?

The door creaked open to draw the count to maximum occupancy from 147 to 146.

A tall, old man with a very wide-brimmed hat and a long, thick staff walked across the floorboards, the staff acting as third leg to offset them. Their creaking, coupled with the swinging of the door, jolted the bartender awake.

Swinging his head in the direction of the visitor, he couldn't identify him as any of the regulars. Rubbing his eyes–or at least, the bangs in front of them– he was still no more able to discern the identity of the stranger.

The stranger did not care. He was simply happy that it was his day.

While the bartender was spellbound, the stranger took a seat, only 3 away from the obstinately uninterested Cerebus. He made a show of taking in the place, his hat curving along with the tilt of his head as his gaze made a slow sweep of the walls. Abruptly, they stopped on the other old man sitting alone in the shadow.

Quickly, the newcomer swerved back to the bar and placed his order.

To the bartender, the words could have been geese quacking, for all the difference it would have made to his comprehension in that instant of half-awareness.

"Oy uh… beg yer pardon… but uh… wajah say?" asked Richard.

The bartender allowed himself a study of the man's face. It was very old indeed, with wrinkled lines

"If the old memory recalls, I said 'Two meads. One for me, and one for that fellow over there.' " He said, without any trace of patronization. At the end of the brief recitation, he leaned on the back of his chair and pointed to the sailor-capped senior in the back, whose mystic grin had transformed into a frown of discontent.

"Oh. Righ' righ'. One momen'…" Hustling to the barrels, Richard drew two mugs of mead, then hurried back to the customer.

Cerebus grit his twin pairs of teeth and snorted. Cerebus was not interested. Cerebus was not interested. Cerebus was not interested…

It was only until he presented the mugs of mead for the man's retrieval did he recall one would be served to the man at the back wall.

"Way a'minud… oy wudden buy dat goy a dwink if oy wah you." protested the bartender. " 'e has reah particular tastes in hid alkeyhol…"

"I'm sure he'll accommodate my choice. Now, if you'll excuse us, him and I have some urgent discussion to partake in."

Leaving his staff to rest on the counter's edge, the man strode over towards his intended drinking companion, who made not the slightest sign to acknowledge his coming. Richard, meanwhile, had yet to realize that he had not been paid for the ale.

Still determined not to arouse his curiosity to any degree, Cerebus quickly placed another order with the bartender.

"Another mead-er… scotch."

"Coomin' righ' oop." replied the bartender agreeably, as he went to fetch the next beverage.

The man with the wide-brimmed hat set the mugs on a nearby table, then drew in a chair nearby. Collecting the mugs, he presented a mug to the man in the sailor cap, speaking his name softly and clearly.

"Bacchus." he said.

That man's frown turned into something that was unrecognizable as either a smile or a frown. But he did say his first words of the day.

"And what is it that you wished to be called today?" asked Bacchus.

The man in the wide-brimmed hat chuckled.

"Well, it is my day… so how about… Wednesday."

So... a few words on how this is going to work.

Basically, this story exists in a universe in which any and all characters that I choose to drop in exist simultaneously, with no much-overused "multiverse" to facilitate the crossover. So the histories and continuities of said fictional universes are, in their initial states, intertwined with one another, as well as the real world. And then the characters from said universes interact with each other at this bar.

What this means for you, the reader, is that I am open for suggestions as to who to drop in! So let me know in the comments or reviews as to who you'd like to see as a barfly!