NOT his kind of place. For one, the music sucked. For another, it was an Anglo-Saxon style bar, and he had never approved of the atmosphere in those. At the same time too shiny and too seedy, an enormous contrast between the polished surfaces and the drunk, generally badly-dressed customers. And for a third, it just wasn't the same without a stuffed wolpertinger in a corner, the landlord's most prestigious set of antlers over the bar, surrounded by a handful of framed Schafkopf decks. Also missing were the tin-lidded beersteins of the regulars on the mantle... But then, he was not here to lift a glass or three with friends and coworkers after work. He was here because damn it, it was about time he thought about returning to the field again.<br/><br/>Parcival took a breath, opened the door, and headed into the taproom. He looked as out of place as he felt, having opted for a reasonably respectable-looking suit and tie and leaving the uniform at home. He no longer was an officer in the LCAF - in fact, he could thank his lucky stars they left him the Lieutenant's insignia when they threw him out. And for once, he hadn't even seduced that woman. He growled quietly at the memory, then buried it where it belonged. In the past. The only space was at the bar, and he headed over there; hopefully, they at least had drinkable beer here, not that dishwater some of the larger outfits in the Suns served. He kept his ears open, though - always possible one might overhear something interesting. Like that redhead asking about pilots over there. With any luck, she wasn't talking about aerospace.<br/><br/>"What's on tap?" He asked the barkeeper, then ordered one of the local lagers. Not his first choice, but it was drinkable, while he got a better feel for the room.