when you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives
Having never experienced a monsoon, or a building that is likely to be ravaged by one, Finn is unaware of what the future days might bring for him. As things are going so far, he imagines it will only bring more of the same. He stands, wrapped in loose fabrics that barely cling to his shoulders, collecting a glass of something poured over ice at the bar. It doesn't matter what it is - it's to wash down whatever he's just put under his tongue.
Easy to work while inebriated - easier still when one can feign extroversion. Knocking back the drink, he replaces it on the bar and collects, instead, a rich glass of red wine. Then, returning to the lounge area of the Halenani and ignoring the way the world howls and rushes at them from outside, Finn settles himself across a couch to watch the doors. It's his usual haunt, and it's becoming more comfortable than he cares to admit. All habits do, in the end.
Easy to work while inebriated - easier still when one can feign extroversion. Knocking back the drink, he replaces it on the bar and collects, instead, a rich glass of red wine. Then, returning to the lounge area of the Halenani and ignoring the way the world howls and rushes at them from outside, Finn settles himself across a couch to watch the doors. It's his usual haunt, and it's becoming more comfortable than he cares to admit. All habits do, in the end.
Finn?
