There aren't many things I can say I enjoy in life. Makes sense really, considering I profit from death, but besides that I've never been the 'liking' kind. I'm picky about my food, picky about my friends, and I'm sure as hell picky about my marks.
But I'm never picky about the drink.
"Another," I told the barman, rapping my knuckles against the counter's stained wooden surface to catch his attention. He must have been expecting it, because a moment later a chipped clay tankard frothing at the brim came sliding towards me, stopping precisely in front of my crossed arms.
He was pretty good.
Picking it up I drank my beer slowly, scanning the surrounding room with feigned boredom. It was a habit I'd picked up after years on the road, and it was a damned useful one. He was around six and a half feet tall, judging by how his feet stretched out below the table he shared with two other me