@oggyfromthebog
The scars on his cheek were still strange hue of deep red and black, cracks in a volcano rather than scars, dressing the way secrets always dressed: revelling in the fact that they were there.
Which was fine with Kirian. Or rather, ignored by Kirian. The scars kept most away from him and that was useful. That was the best he could wish for.
He himself had his eyes focused on a large merchant, the kind of man that seemed to dominate in every sense of the word, every word shouted as if still behind his wares. His fingers yellowed by tobacco, the nostrils of his nose red with something far stronger, and his eyes wild with the tell of a sore loser trying to mask his impending anger by confidence.
Eh. One more.
From his seat, in the corner of the tavern, another man’s eyes found his, inquisitive. An elf, scruffy black hair framing a face that would probably be handsome when washed. Kirian took a sip from his drink and the man turned back, raising the stakes.
The merchant threw his cards on the table, yelling a truly impressive list of insults in a truly interesting variation of languages. Still, Kirian couldn’t imagine he was a good merchant.
No good people were present here.
The elf sauntered to the bar with his newfound fortune, all the bearings of a man who was eager to be dirt poor again as soon as the bar maid would allow it. Kirian waited, until everyone had gone back to focusing on themselves, something that didn’t take very long and stood up, grabbing a chair as he nearly lost his balance.
(Avi always did laugh he couldn’t hold his drink.)
Kirian finished the rest of his beer in a single, long gulp and swaggered back to the bar, slamming it down nearly hard enough to break. “‘nother.”
“Prob’ly good for t’night,” he said sternly, to seemingly no one in particular, although he suspected his -- well, Kirian wouldn’t say friend. Associate. Yes. He was probably the sort of man to have associates now of this kind of moral fibre. -- his associate would have some choice words to say about that.