Discovering rumors about a specific tavern, supposedly it's venerable, pre-eminent.. for something. But it's difficult remembering now that your awe-struck. Though judging by the amount of cups, tankards and glasses on the table, it's presumably the fine alcoholic drinks. You manage to find a seat and prepare for what will undoubtedbly be a great evening. The tavern itself is packed. Groups belonging to some kind of organization, whether sport, instrumental, or deadly intent groups, seem to be the primary clientele here, which could be seen as the avoidant sign you can get. Several long tables are occupied by cowboys, travellers, foreigners and anybody else who wishes to join. The other, smaller tables are also occupied by people, a crowded business for bartenders, indeed. Nobody seems to mind more company.

Yet, as you exit for a breath of air, finding relief within a cigar you release from your pockets, you stumble upon a fact; You've forgotten your lighter. And, with a dissatisfied grumble somebody apparant can hear, your met with a sudden announcement of a presence advancing closer, as you see a tall male, his hat tipped towards your direction as a show of respect, a cigarette present within his own lips, already lit.

Without any warning, he seeks in closer proximity, his almost-transparent eyes narrowed as he casually lights yours with his own, before using his index and middle finger to remove his, teasingly blowing a puff of smoke in your direction. "Comin' out for a puff? I bet them arguments in there will last till the cows come home. It's understandable." He argued himself, smirking as his back leaned against a nearby wall, his clear southern accent apparant.