“Drunken fists? Yes I suppose you would be good at that one,” Josh chuckled around a small sip of scotch. “I tried playing once, but they told me I couldn't continue because my face broke a few fists.” He stroked the stubble on his adamantine jaw and leaned back in his chair, taking another drought of whisky. The liquor warmed his lips and carried heat all the way to his belly, like a personal campfire.

“How long have you lived in Scara Brae?” Josh inquired. He assumed the giant was a resident because, well, the man had his own chair at the local tavern. “I'm just on the island for a few nights myself. Attending the queen's royal ball with a friend tomorrow.” Breaker patted his stomach contentedly and poured himself a fresh tumbler of scotch. The amber liquid embodied the shape of the glass, glowing in the lantern lights of the Peaceful Promenade.