[ She may recognize him as the man who refused to believe that the enormous skeletons scattered across Wyver could be anything other than art pieces. He looks just the same, after all, with his hair a wild mess of curls and a bottle of wine in his hand.

He isn’t so drunk yet that he doesn’t notice her caution, but he merely smiles and settles back into his chair, taking a swig straight from the bottle. ]

Luckily, the manners of the bartender haven't sullied the wine. It’s a fine vintage, I assure you. I would be unable to distinguish it from a Parisian wine, if I weren't aware of where we currently are.