Rath curled his inhumanly long fingers around the base of the pewter mug, raked it closer to his chest from across the bar top. This was the third time this week he found himself sitting in the same dimly lit corner of this pub, nursing down bitterly alcoholic drinks until his throat was numb.
The place in question was a shithole. It had humble beginnings - the original owner intent on forging a cabin composed of only the natural resources the Terrin Mountains had to offer, so that he may profit by offer spirits and a night's rest to travelers. But of course he didn't get enough customers to sustain himself - no one in their right mind would be entering Connlaoth into Serendipity, and the Connlaothan people would rather march straight into hell before walking into a country devoted willy nilly to magic.
New management these days, though. They had the mind enough to turn it into a brothel of sorts, not to mention a safe haven for the black market between the two vastly different countries. Everything from smuggled slaves to less than appropriate 'business' negotiations occurred in this only half-constructed wooden shell of a man's once dream. Screams went unnoticed, guaranteed. It was a smart location, too - carefully teetering between borders, neither here nor there.
Rath had found this place entirely by accident, and he couldn't figure what magnetic force was compelling him back time and again to the recesses of the shadiest dealings you could find without having to travel to Zantaric. He was one of the only Serendipity milita to have stepped inside of it's doors. The god damned place didn't even have a name.
He supposed it was because, since he was in the presence of such low lives, this was the only place he felt worthy enough to be a knight. Rath drew the cup to his lips, tossing his neck into profile to down the remains in one quick shot. He tried not to wince at the taste, wiping his mouth on the back of his furred sleeve. "Another. Please."
Yeah, bartender knew the lanky boy donned in the head-to-toe fur cloak was a mageknight. He didn't know his name, but he could see that silver badge playing back candlelight every time the kid shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Sure kid." He bartender replied gruffly, "Listen, I'll give ya whateva ya want, free of charge, if ya keep yer hands off my customers tonight." He filled up another cup and slid it down the countertop with expertise that came with years of tending to a bar, streamlined the drink dead into Rath's outstretched hand. "I got some very important people comin' in."
Rath smiled ruefully. "I don't make promises."
"A-Ay!" The bartender retorted, wiping his grubby hands off with a nearby rag that almost immediately went to drying freshly washed cups; if dipping a cup into murky brown water for a moment counted as 'washing', "That's racist, what ya have. Goin' around my bar, takin' out my customers just fer being Connlaothan! Bodies, I've seen 'em outside."
"My family is Connlaothan." Rath remarked dryly, his voice breathy and perhaps just a little laden with the effects of his drink. A soft euphony of 'tink's resounded from the impact of his claws rapping one by one against the metal body of his cup.
Not once did that headstrong boy turn to look at the bartender when he was talking to him, and it was getting on his nerves. At his last straw, the bartender unveiled what he thought would undo Rath. The guy leaned in with a hushed whisper, "I know yer from tha Serendipity milita! What would they do, knowin' yer here? Lettin' these things happen."
Alcohol drained onto the bar's surface from the holes Rath's claws had punctured into his cup at that very moment. "Fuck you."