Bars. Anrothan didn't normally frequent them. Today was an exception. It was his mother's birthday, Neamhain had been giving him odd looks all day, and so he had found this dingy bar- populated with morally questionable characters- and had grabbed a seat for himself at the bar, starting in with whiskey. At the moment, he had somehow ended up with vodka. Wondering how he had gotten at this very, very low point, Anrothan downed the shot in one go and set the glass back down with a sharp, precise sound.
Great. And now he was on his way to drunk. Anrothan was no lightweight, and he hadn't drunken much, just enough to remember what being drunk was like. Ever since his early days in the army, Anrothan had sworn off drinking. It dulled your edges, slowed your reflexes. Made you ignore important things. And so, unfortunately, here he was. Not drunk. And Neamhain was likely waiting for him to go back home.