07-02-2013, 07:30 AM
It's Jack's turn to hit Marcellus with a barrage of questions, and in truth, most of them go sailing by the older kin's head. So instead he latches onto the one question that makes sense to him, the one that rings true and clear like a dawn clarion call to arms, and claps a callused hand on the Philodox's shoulder.
"A drink, Senor Jack, would go down a treat. I've recently been nurturing a yearning to try a glass of Macallan, but I'll settle for rotgut, things being as they are, and count myself lucky to get some."
He turns toward the door, buoyed by the prospect of imminent cheer, noise, and company.
"A drink, Senor Jack, would go down a treat. I've recently been nurturing a yearning to try a glass of Macallan, but I'll settle for rotgut, things being as they are, and count myself lucky to get some."
He turns toward the door, buoyed by the prospect of imminent cheer, noise, and company.