the things we hold are always the first to go
The door to the White Hart creaks open and a rumble of recognition goes up around the regulars; granted, though, it is early for Ronin to be making an appearance. Cian has only had to introduce the Star to the Silk Houses once for him to practically make it his home, and once he's finished with the Dragoons for the day, he makes routine visits to this place. And the fight clubs. And sometimes Molly's, but not as often as one would think.
He's here so early not for himself, but for the Eye, and it's clear by the languid footsteps and the continuing lazy pace of the piano that he's not there for a fight. Ronin, too, is dressed out of fashion compared to lately, in a soft grey shirt and dark pants. Slumping into a seat at the table opposite Cian, he offers a nod to the barmaid for an ale.
"Celebrating, or grieving?" he wonders idly. Those are the only two reasons to drink quite this soon in the day.
He's here so early not for himself, but for the Eye, and it's clear by the languid footsteps and the continuing lazy pace of the piano that he's not there for a fight. Ronin, too, is dressed out of fashion compared to lately, in a soft grey shirt and dark pants. Slumping into a seat at the table opposite Cian, he offers a nod to the barmaid for an ale.
"Celebrating, or grieving?" he wonders idly. Those are the only two reasons to drink quite this soon in the day.
