It had been a long day, and his drink washed his throat with a splash of the nearly antiseptic alcohol, a triple-both ale that left a rich, bitter aftertaste. The kids liked this stuff, he understood, picturing the youth of Alerar, a transformative difference from the boys coming of age back in the time of stone and brass, when Storm Veritas was first getting his feet wet in these pubs.

Dickheads. Swishing through these overcooked beers, proud of their asshole beards with hair gel in them and peeking through the thick rimmed glasses with no prescription in them. They even pretend to like whiskey, even if these little boys are soft as puppy shit.

In truth, there weren't any of these young men in the bar right now; it was a fairly quiet night, and he leaned back in his oak chair, feeling the screws wobble a touch as he balanced his beer on his small belt buckle. Kicking his feet up on the table before him, the metal soles reflected some of the soft amber light in the bar, soft white noise buzzing around Philomel. Storm cared deeply for the faun, and knew the attention a hybrid type with staggering whoppers between her armpits would gather, even on an otherwise quiet night. Every man besides him in the bar encircled her, trying to curry favor with stories of bravery, fortune, and glory.

Can't hate the hustle. Ten years younger and five times dumber, I'd roll the same sort of dice.

He smiled as he looked over the top of his glass at the beauty, sipping gently at his bitter beer. She had completely charmed him already, but he suspected had he try to pick her up with smooth lines, compliments and braggadocio, things would have gone sideways plenty quick. Perhaps more interesting to him was the anonymity Philomel afforded him. He had been to every corner of Althanas, adventuring and cheating his way to incredible wealth.

If any of those rubes drinking pickled tomato wine knew who I was, I'd have to wager at least one or two would be dancing like a puppet for ME, trying to at the very least upgrade the thickness of their wallet. Then again, she's got cash AND those tits, so that pretty much seals it for me.

Amused by the dance of the foolish, poor callers, Storm was awakened from a bit of a haze as the door chimed, announcing the entrance of a handful of short, black and emerald monstrosities that strolled in unapologetically. His chair came slamming down as he sat up at the preposterous sight, turning his chair a tweak to gather what absurd encroachment had arrived.