Things seemed duller than ever for Flint.
Sitting at a bar again, he was drinking some gods-awful ale, simply because it was the only thing on offer, and he needed to drink something. He was leaving Connlaoth, finally. His time here proved fruitless. A few odd jobs that earned him a meagre sum of coin. The war took it's toll on the regions business, and the thief needed to migrate to find a more reliable stream of coin.
His plans had not progressed even in the slightest. Axton Claybourne still sat somewhere in Connlaoth, wealth and women all around him, living a life of pleasure. His father, the man who had cast him out. The man who needed to pay. Flint would take everything from him, somehow. And then, he'd be filthy rich, free to do as he pleases. Maybe he'd create a guild, settle down. None of that seemed realistic until Axton lay in a dark and dirty street, not a coin to his name. All Flint needed was a crew. And a small sum of currency.
He was roused from his thoughts when the man beside him raised his cup. A sign of respect, the thief supposed. He wasn't sure why the man had done it. Flint was dressed like a criminal. He was in his dark travel gear, the same gear he wore when breaking into houses or traversing the urban rooftops. Sure his mask and hood had been pulled down, but his clothes, paired with the scar running across his face, should have been a telltale sign that he meant trouble.
The man was quite formidable himself. Built strong, cleanly shaven with sunken eyes. The eyes of a man who had seen horrors, maybe. Flint raised his own cup half-heartedly, taking another swig.
"Connlaoth seems less hopeful than I'd remembered", he stated, keeping his gaze pointing right ahead of him, away from the man.