I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
"It sounds delightful," Jack muttered, his smile wry as he glanced across at Sunjata and tapped on the bar to order two whiskeys. "I bet you'll be glad to be spendin' it here instead. Though if your monsters find their way to Torchline you can bet your ass that there'll be blood." And not the kind where monsters tore up the beach; no, Jack foresaw riots from any citizens who felt their customs were being disrespected (or, y'know, being threatened with death).
Sliding the glass to Sunjata, Jack slouched onto one of the stools, not feeling like they needed to slink off to some table somewhere; besides, shamelessly it looked good to see the Arbiter drinking in a place full of Jack's sort of people. "You from the Hollowed Grounds originally?" he asked.
Sliding the glass to Sunjata, Jack slouched onto one of the stools, not feeling like they needed to slink off to some table somewhere; besides, shamelessly it looked good to see the Arbiter drinking in a place full of Jack's sort of people. "You from the Hollowed Grounds originally?" he asked.
