[Bar: Jack & Patrick]
[It was perhaps not the wisest thing, coming to the bar before going to Des' to meet her and Newt. Patrick had not slept, and he was still hanging onto a hangover that insisted in persisting. He had reached that level of tired that brought on the desire to vomit. He was most entirely nauseous, and maybe hair of the dog was not the way to approach this that would have the most positive results.
He had not changed his clothing, and his beanie was most carefully pulled down over pointed ears as he entered the bar he had visited just the previous day. The music was still too loud, and it was not the kind of music Patrick appreciated. He did not recall musical appreciation, to be honest; there had been nothing comparing to modern music in Arborlon.
His time away had brought him to the ripe age of 23, and he already had his license out and ready to show it to the bartender. He hitched up onto a stool, and he slid the plastic out in front of him with a butchered right hand that was purple and red by turns, the knuckles swollen and most obviously punch-broken. Patrick Webster Gunster, 21, the license indicated, and he had no way to correct the age on it.
He did not look at the man on the stool beside him. He ordered a shot and a beer, and he waited. The world still felt like it was tilting most precariously, and this had nothing to do with the previous night's hangover or the pretty bump the bathroom wall had left on the back of his skull.]