Allen, Henri, and Vi | Late Evening, Post-Fight
Two men walked slowly from the raging bonfire, soldiers from a battlefield. Clothes torn, spitting blood, every breath pain and every step labor, Allen and Henri leaned into each other, the bartender to allow himself to inhale despite the fast-spreading bruise that crept across his side and a shoulder to match, the Marshal to take the weight from a knee now swelling to double the normal size.
Both men were clearly in agony, exhausted, mentally and physically. Neither complained. In fact, both men smiled; Henri's teeth were bared in a manic snarling grin as he chattered, though his lips were split, and one amber eye was swollen shut. Allen's smile was more sedate, somehow, a wry, satisfied smirk that managed to make even the black eyes and blood from a broken nose appear confident and smug.
"So, been a spell, long walk to the Palace... You still whiskey and soda, or you gotten frisky in Aurelle?"