[h3][color=silver][u]Willamar “Will” Shriver | 8:00PM | London Pub[/u][/color][/h3]

It has started just a few days ago, that is, the itchiness. The discomfort of it had been largely ignored till is faded, as for actual treatment, some of the students’ papers were capturing his attentions. The man known at Willamar Shiver just couldn’t tear himself away. With Cross Academy’s curriculum...all the students, over time, came to be very well versed, articulated in the subject matters brought up in class, and he could proudly say that this reflected in their penned essays. Maybe in a shorter time than anticipated, his role of instructor would become entirely redundant to this class. In reading, grading these one by one in the past week, it had been needlessly careless…but he had simply forgotten.

[i]The headaches started setting in earlier this morning.[/i]

Loosening the dark long-tie from his neck in the dimness of the pub, his white cotton dress shirt tinted warmly by the lamp light, and tapping his long fingers along the surface of the worn table...his brandy had been set before him and politely away from the short stack of papers spread out. Smiling at the waiter-girl, Will mouthed a thank you before she had to flee off to help another table, and absently he rubbed his arm, peering down at the amber liquid settled in the glass. Truth be told, a good spot of booze always made him feel a bit better. Such a thing was not even a proper, temporary fix, however...more of a creature comfort, really. [i]Will did not know what sort of creature he could be called; all that he knew was that he was inextricably mortal.

By gods, it had been too long.[/i]

Eagerly picking the glass off the table, and bringing it to his nose, he didn’t actually know much about the scent of a good alcohol…but this seemed promising.