The man's steps came to a halt, a hand raising to his face, pulling the black cloth upwards over his nose. His nostrils twitched, a frown on his face. "Blood," he mumbled, his gaze turning to a diminutive figure sitting not incredibly far away. He raised a hand in the direction of the small, cloaked individual, his palm open in a gesture of calm. He bowed his head, indicating he had no ill intention, and proceeded onward, moving to the bar, the periphery of his vision still on the little figure in order to be cautious. "Bartender," he said, "Alcohol. Whatever. My only stipulation is that you make it strong."
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Arrival at the Bismarck [Open] |
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