i'm a thinker, not a talker
The bartender doesn’t know where Thorn’s room is, and was hoping to reply on the courtesan’s steady lead to bring them both there safely, but as Thorn lurches up from the bar and nearly swings over onto the ground, Casimir feels he has little luck for that. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in making Thorn’s drink as strong as requested, but he was too loyal and too practiced as a bartender to avoid a steady pour. Thorn’s hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles looking nearly white, and Casimir instinctively steps in closer in case he were to collapse. He offered the escort as a precaution, an excuse to get the man to the bed his body so badly craved, but it seemed like his assistance would provide necessary.
Hesitantly, he offered a strong arm out to Thorn’s swaying body, like a gentleman may offer their companion. His bartending duties were always closer to chasing away drunks, his bedside manner declared too harsh by the other bartenders to do the chivalric escorting to beds and lodgings, so he has no clue if what he’s doing is right or helpful or anything at all, really. An eye stays trained on Thorn even as they walk, a deliberately slower pace than his typical long strides cover, aware of both the shorter man’s shorter legs and his drunken, exhausted sway. He hopes to the Gods Thorn doesn’t fall over or collapse. Casimir would catch him, of course he would, but this simple contact is enough for the heat of it through the fabric of his shirt to send screaming tendrils up his arm and the back of his neck flaming.
Hesitantly, he offered a strong arm out to Thorn’s swaying body, like a gentleman may offer their companion. His bartending duties were always closer to chasing away drunks, his bedside manner declared too harsh by the other bartenders to do the chivalric escorting to beds and lodgings, so he has no clue if what he’s doing is right or helpful or anything at all, really. An eye stays trained on Thorn even as they walk, a deliberately slower pace than his typical long strides cover, aware of both the shorter man’s shorter legs and his drunken, exhausted sway. He hopes to the Gods Thorn doesn’t fall over or collapse. Casimir would catch him, of course he would, but this simple contact is enough for the heat of it through the fabric of his shirt to send screaming tendrils up his arm and the back of his neck flaming.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
