without the chance for last respects

[northseaflotsam]

Occasionally he hangs out in Stigmata, because it's cheap (to say the least) and you meet interesting people; but more often lately he's gravitating to another establishment, tucked away among winding streets, one that smells of old timber and new bread

Comments

[crophisownrose]

It's Sagramore's birthday--he turns forty to-day. And he still feels unsettled and unhappy, as if he can't find his footing somehow in this world, but--he can't help it--he's half-terrified to go back to his own.

And the number of people in Stigmata just seems like begging for trouble; a greater number of people to see him drunk and behaving like an idiot, just because he can't think of anything better to do. So finding another place to endure his birthday in relative peace and quiet seems like a better idea.

He wanders for a long time before he finds the tavern and slips in, almost guiltily, like a boy who isn't sure that he's old enough to drink with the men yet and is hoping no one will notice. He's too busy feeling troubled to notice Mordred right away, and once he has a bottle of brandy and a shot glass to pour it into, he settles quietly, somehow managing to fit all of his long self at a small table without much discomfort.

[northseaflotsam]

Mordred, on the other hand, hasn't missed his entrance. He delays only briefly, watching with sharp dark eyes, before he collects his drink and crosses to join Sagramore. "There you are," mildly.

[crophisownrose]

He glances up. "It's been a long time since I've seen you drink."

[northseaflotsam]

"Aye?" sliding into a seat without waiting for an invitation.