“Seditious, he is. A rabble-rouser. Never can leave well enough alone.”
This doesn’t ring true of Aarhir at even his lowest points, he’s been known to outrun lunch if it’s a few degrees too hot to swallow. Abe squints at the barmaid and rattles his nails on the counter. “Seditious, y’say? Well then, it seems I’m after one of them Pinocchio types, all masks and strings and what ‘ave you.”
He pitches what’s left of his tumbler down the back of his throat, and places it deftly back into her hand, all two-faced in his manner. “I’ll need me a bottle of the pissier stuff if I’m to make it through this one, dear Agnes.”












