Garret Kilroy, a name not widely known, but it describes a man of formidable character, feared as a well-performing and efficient mercenary. Well, maybe not feared. Acknowledged might've been a better word. And perhaps less "well-performing" and "efficient" as "moderately performing" and "I only wanted the mice out of the cellar, you didn't have to burn the house down". But that was just the one time, and he was certain they hadn't planned to pay him anyway. His reputation was spotty indeed but if you wanted a job done by someone who didn't ask many questions then there was no one better. Not around here, anyway, and certainly no one with such a low hiring fee, even if low in this case was quite relative. He'd done almost every job in the book; assassinations, body disposal, baby sitting, even helping someone perform at a talent show. That one had been disastrous but he'd gotten paid for it anyway, so Garret called it a success in his book. He was a man who had built up a reputation for being willing to do just about anything. And yet, tonight he was doing nothing.

Garret sat in a shaded corner of the queen of hearts bar, an annoyed scowl plastered on his face. Every so often he'd bring the mug in his hands to his frowning face and sip the pungent liquid inside. It was almost tasteless and its smell left much to be desired. But it was cheap, and that was all that mattered to Garret. Things weren't going too well for him at the moment, though with life on the run that was more often the rule than the exception. He always had to be careful to never take jobs associated with gangs, and he took pains to avoid high publicity jobs (which unfortunately usually had the most money). There were usually no end to odd jobs that needed a down-low kind of guy, but they'd been sparser by the day, and they were getting more and more involved in the gangs of Aieth. He didn't want to risk a confrontation, and they just weren't paying as well as they used to. All of these factors combined meant that his rent was late, and his fat whale of a landlord had been quick to remind him.

Garret downed the last of his drink as the music swelled before slamming his mug down with a weighty thunk.
[color=gray][b]"I need another!"[/b][/color] He yelled gruffly, hopefully loud enough to be heard by serving staff.
He could feel the warm tinge of intoxication set into his cheeks. Cheap or no, it was alcohol, one of the many drugs of the poor. Of use to people with little else to comfort them, and Garret was most definitely in a bad mood. He should probably have been looking for a job instead, but really, who would have a job for him at this time in the evening?