Fionn Ó Máille isn’t a big man, per se. Always more shoulder than height. And the steel-edged pauldrons, half-draped with the heavy, fur-lined cloak, help with that. Comfortable in this his third chair of the evening, he takes up plenty of room, though. Watches from steady eyes, blue as the many oceans he’s crossed, as the man opposite him triumphantly slams his empty tankard down... and promptly slithers from his seat and disappears under the table.
“Night.” The auburn-haired traveller farewells his brief companion, with a small rise of his bearded chin.
That makes three who’ve risen --- and fallen --- to the challenge. ( Hence why he’s had to move tables. They’re just not big enough to accommodate more than one beneath ‘em. ) And ten drinks. Not the best he’s ever quaffed, but certainly far from the worst, either.
Golds and silvers clink pleasantly together, a mildly hazy, contented smile tugging at scar-edged lips, as he slides them from the center of the table, charts a course amidst the tankards, and off the edge into his pouch.
He’s barely scraped his chair back and gotten to his feet when a strapping farm boy strides up, a handful of tarnished silver coins clutched in work-rough fingers. “I’ll take ya. I’ll have me a go.”
Fionn just chuckles, warmly. Gives him a solid pat on the shoulder that also maneuvers him out of the way. “Not t’night, lad. Save y’r coin.” And he heads for the door.
Almost there, he passes a table currently occupied only by a man in a worn coat --- although he himself had a companion until a few minutes ago; Fionn’s not fully sure just where she went. As he goes, he drifts a couple fingers over the worn wood top, like a pleasantly drunk man might, to keep himself steady on his path. In a low voice, he offers, “Y’re bein’ watched, friend. Might wanna keep a close eye on th’ little one in here.”
And with steady treads, new coin jangling at his belt, Fionn pushes out into the cool night air.
@mightynope
