circa mid 1790s?
[ Antonio usually does not drink for this reason, this cold grasp of melancholy. He usually does not need help to loosen his spirits. Currently however, he finds himself in a busy bar, half-full beer in his hands, half-empty smile on the contours of his face. If he closes his eyes, he feels it - the madness, the power, the blood brimming along and inside his borders, radiating off hermano Francia. Like a contagious disease, his brother-neighbor's fever festers quietly within him too.
When he opens his eyes and brings the glass to his lips, he drinks, slow and deep. He chugs until his lungs contract, until the slow burn in his throat turns to numbness; then he slams the empty glass on the wooden counter, tired smile widening. A breath. ]
Ah... English beer is never really good!
When he opens his eyes and brings the glass to his lips, he drinks, slow and deep. He chugs until his lungs contract, until the slow burn in his throat turns to numbness; then he slams the empty glass on the wooden counter, tired smile widening. A breath. ]
Ah... English beer is never really good!