i brood in the corner of the tavern. im silent and cool and wearing a hood. i have a ton of knives but no one can see them
I'm in the opposite corner and i don't have a hood, but my face is hidden by the (un)natural shadows that cut across the tavern. I am effortlessly sliding a coin between my knuckles, a demonstration of how smooth I am.
I'm the tavern musician playing a mysterious tune on my vielle, speaking of horrors unknown that none dare face yet. My tip jar is empty
i order another ale and drop my change into the bard’s tip jar out of embarrassed obligation. i get a little self conscious that i’m seemingly the only motherfucker in the room with an easily viewed face and pull my collar up a little.
I am drunk and loud and laughing and any moderately perceptive person will immediately detect that I am extremely uncomfortable and just want to be somewhere, anywhere else. Home, perhaps.