He's downing drink after drink, because that's just the one thing he was the master at. He doesn't feel dizzy just yet, but he's starting to see things in a blur when he looks to his sides.

The Garrison's nearly empty. Thank God it is, otherwise the guests would just have to look at their patron drinking his soul and melancholies off. Arthur doesn't know if he actually wants for people to see him this bad or if he wants to hide his worries, or how his eyes look so sunken he's sure it's obvious he hasn't slept in days, or how his hair is so disheveled he's sure everyone thinks he's a crazy man.

In a sense, he was a crazy man. He wouldn't judge anyone that did call him a crazy man, but he'd get angry. Oh, he'd get very angry.

Arthur wants to waste himself to the liquor, wants to drown the fact his wife left him, wants to drown the fact so many members of his family had died recently, he wants to drown everything. But he doesn't, not when he sees you approaching, not when he can tell you'd just call him a fool if he did, and instead the corners of his lips even twitch up.

"Bloody hell, you're lookin' furious." He murmurs from beneath his moustache, lifting his glass of whiskey to his lips.