The taverns old floorboards creaked slowly one by one, the sound descending down the stairs and continuing to travel across the room towards the bar. Clay, barefooted, in tattered old jeans soon appeared. His movements slow and lethargic like his breathing. His mood sour. His tired face hidden in the shadows of a hooded jacket. 

“[b]Keep the pants, but that’s my drink.[/b]”Clay mumbles. Drawing Evelyn’s attention to the pants on her legs that weren’t hers.

Using the distraction he snatched the bottle from her hand. 
“[b]Relax, I was a gentleman the whole time. At least in my actions anyway. [/b]” he reassures teasingly, managing to muster a sly, playful, tone in his raspy dry voice, eyeying her from the corner of his eyes as he takes a deep desperate drink of the ale. 

As he turns to walk away, bottle in hand, he is stricken by a heavy and sickly coughing fit that temporarily robs him of his breath. Using a nearby wall for support he slowly regains his composure and begins to make his way back to the stairs, rewarding himself with a swig every few steps.

[@BoyMom69035][@Dealdric]