The scruffy old doctor stumbles through the sand up to the road, he had been rowing for several days and the tiny boat he had didn't offer much opportunity to stretch ones legs, he was a bit out of practice with walk. He looks around, dammit, there was always one near the port, some sort of bar or pub full of old salts where he could find a ship to get on that wasn't liable to capsize with a slight bit of chop. He pats down his pockets, pulling out a tin case, flipping it open for a hand rolled cigarette. Lighting it up, this wasn't your normal leaf, but a strong herb with muscle relaxing properties, though is anyone else were to take a drag they would end us a wet noodle, he had built up a tolerance. Considering recent events, rough sees, paddling for miles, and uprooting his entire life, he could use a bit of relaxing. He shoves his hands into his pockets, keeping the money he had close at hand in case of pickpockets, and the modified surgical knives at the ready. Listened close, following the sound of glassware and jaw waggling, ducking into an open door frame to a dark room smelling of smoke and booze. Taking a seat at the bar, [color=green]"A bottle of grog and something that's warm and use to be walking."[/color] He had enough of dried rations and cold fish.