He is bitter, like the cheap ale sloshing clumsily in his glass. Perhaps, like the ale, if he loosens a little and pretends he’s better, he might start to believe it. Perhaps, by domino effect, others might as well. Unlikely, he muses, given the intense drunken stare he’s currently fixing against the floorboards. He is an unappealing, bitter man, and nothing will change that. Especially not when his breath reeks of alcohol.
He wrinkles his nose when he sees his tab, but pays it nonetheless. There isn’t much point causing fights over his poor choices. It’ll just get him barred from future drinking, Maker forbid he ever stop willingly.
He stumbles outside, into the dark, and walks directly into someone- Or something, perhaps- He’s quite drunk, and not paying attention, but he thinks the wincing sound is from a person other than himself. He knows his own voice. Frowning, he tries to step back, though the action combines with his already poor balance and top-heavy armor, and he instead falls flat on his rear.
This time, it’s him who groans.
Rather than risk falling again in trying to stand, he sits up. “Odd place to be standing. You ought to move.”
