"Are you saying it was you that kicked me, runt?" he asked, assuming that because the other man had spoken, he was therefore guilty. "Well then you deserve the spillage," he continued. "You're the one that caused it in the first place! Why is it then my fault you caused the ruination of your own shirt, you lousy drunk? Fix your problem, yourself! Honestly," he scoffed shaking his head and spitting on the floor beside the man.
"I don't believe this. Bartender! Still need a drink here if you haven't noticed and while you're at it throw this clown out. He's trying to pick a fight. He. Won't. Win." The words were an unspoken challenge but it provided the man the few moments he needed to take in the appearance of his possibly new opponent.
'Green eyes, blonde hair, about the same height so equal grounds there. Looks youngish, age indeterminable. He's fish food. Nothing to it. Unless,' Artorius' eyes raked up and down the body in front of him, 'he's not bad. A cold night could use...hmm. Waters are made to be tested.'
Impatiently waiting for his drink to be refilled, Artorius came to the decision he would sit tight and see how the other man would react. Whatever the result, the gambler always got what he wanted. It was just a matter of what the other man wanted, or what he thought he wanted.