It was certainly unlike the warlock male to bury himself in books, scrolls, and ancient book of shadows about magic and demons, to learn everything he possibly could of his enemy, a demon who might as well have had his very soul. He was damn well near desperate now, knowing each day that passed was probably one step closer to his doom. He sat at a wooden desk within his sailboat, deep into the late hours of the night. His mind was so tired the words seemed to blur together, or maybe it was the whiskey by his side. But one glimpse at the amber liquid and one would find the bottle nearly untouched, also so very uncharacteristic of the Irish man. A strained groan escaped him, a sound of defeat, at least for now, slamming the book closed in a puff of dust. He found himself swimming in maddening circles, getting nowhere fast. It was infuriating.

The kind of magic and knowledge he needed were most likely not going to be found in these books, but in ancient scripture. If that kind of knowledge was so readily accessible demon's would make damn sure to obliterate it, or at least make it damn near impossible to find. He ran a callused hand through the rough stubble on his face, he needed to shave. Hell, he needed to do a lot of things but he wasn't exactly on the best winning streak as of late. He had lost the girl, his boat needed more work than he had time to put into it, and his magic, he needed to be a hell of a lot stronger to even come close to rival that irksome demon.

The Irishman rose from his seat, stretching, allowing his bones to crack and settle in place. He has been sitting for far too long and idle hands never suited Brennan, no, not one bit. He quickly straightened and cleaned himself up, changing his to his usual worn black jeans and nothing fancy stormy grey henley that matched his eyes, not that he correlated the two. He didn't bother looking in the mirror as he ran a hand through his rich chocolate brown locks, his hair naturally looking messy in that intended way that many had to use product to keep everything in place.

Tonight Brennan was unleashed on the world, or well, the bar of his choosing. He had met yet another dead end. No leads, no man hunt to rough up for intel, nothing. The well was dry and so was his time before being a demon's bitch. He moved fluently, climbing up the steps of his boat with familiar ease, honed muscles practically itching to be used. He had remained cooped up far too long especially with those nagging emotions and thoughts leaning toward someone that he had lost for good. He had to get his mind on other things, like whiskey, yes that was a stellar idea. Whiskey, the cause and solutions to all life's problems.

He slipped off the boat with nimble ease knowing this boat like the back of his hand, every nook and cranny his hands have laid on and worked on. It was his home after all and he took pride in his wooden sailboat, despite the upkeep. At any moment he could will another boat into existence but perhaps the man had a bit of a nostalgic attachment to the boat. Too many memories and time on this private boat. His only true possession that he gave a damn about.

Once he left the docks he summoned his ride, with a mischievous grin and a swell of those powers a pitch black muscle car suddenly appeared before him, perfectly clean and glossy that he could see his reflection. Why he didn't think to use his gifts like this in that obscene hell dimension, he truly had no idea they could extend to such large objects. This certainly made life easier, just think and manifest anything he desired. He rarely wondered where the objects had come from or how they tied themselves to him. Unfortunately, the warlock's power couldn't conjure people. A devious up to no good grin spread across the Irish man's lips at the thought.

The engine roared to life, the keys conveniently already in the ignition, a sound of a roaring dragon and as it should.

He drove as reckless as he was, fast and without heed to well the signs and rules of the road. Fortunately for the world at large, it was just a short trip to the pub with Irish fare and a live band. It was almost guaranteed to be an entertaining night and equally colourful patrons. He parked his car right in front of a no parking sign, knowing very well that it might be towed before the end of the night, in which case he would just conjure another.

The roguish warlock entered the building, his step held a little extra pep that hadn't been there earlier. By this time the pub was already hopping, Irish music thrumming wild and upbeat over the boisterous crowd. Its rowdy patrons perfectly drunk and at their most entertaining. At least two bar fights had already erupted, a man with a black eye and blood trickled down his face from what looked like a broken nose cheered obnoxiously loud. Assumedly he was the victor of one of those fights. At this bar, it was the loser that got kicked out and not the instigator. Rules he was he was more content to live by. Brennan had so qualms with the occasional barfight. He was often too drunk to recall them the next day anyways. Brennan merely nodded his respect to the victor, continuing his beeline to where the alcohol resided. He had eyes for one thing and one thing only, the bar ahead. He moved liked he owned the place, but then again, Brennan felt his most at ease here, reminding him of homeland. It was bittersweet.

His cool grey eyes, more akin to steel flit toward the bartender who was bustling with a fire under her ass to serve drinks. "Whiskey, I don't care how, just make it a double." He ordered, whether the barkeep was ready or not, a devil-may-care grin that almost appeared charming found his mouth as his gaze wavered and peered out into the crowd. He would not get served if he simply just stood there waiting. The warlock leaned up against the bar, thirsty for something to whisk his worries away in the form of that delicious and merciless amber liquid.

Brennan O'Connell