Brennan was very much in his own thoughts, he had a job to do. Drink those bitter thoughts into silence. He had enough of being buried in books and drowning in the notions of what could have been. Brennan was a man who had a very hard time letting things go. Like how it took years upon years to hunt down every last one who had killed his fiancé, it had brought him to this city, many years ago. He had received his blood debt tenfold and yet it still didn't fix anything. Now, love had been the shrewd man's downfall. It had driven him into the very innards of hell, or at least that was the only name he could have called such a hellish place. It had taken countless near death experiences and a deal with a demon to wind him back home, to a world where he no longer fit. Everything had changed, including him.

His familiar drink of choice, amber liquid filled the glass that was placed before him. He gave the barkeep a curt nod of approval and his iconic charming but mischievous smile. "Keep them coming and there will be a good tip in it for you." He murmered smoothly, his accent still prominent after being far from home for years. The music thudded loudly and rapidly, a feverish tune, the band was half way decent even if he wasn't here for them. His nerves still hadn't completely accepted the assaulting stimulus of the city, no matter how familiar it was to him. In actuality, it sent him on edge, his body growing ridged as though one of those hell beasts were going burst into that pub to reduce those wooden doors into nothing but splinters. He figured it wouldn't get better until he could put an end to his own little demon debacle.

There was shift in the bar, a temporary lull settled over the bar at the entrance of a duo of formally dressed men. Brennan could hardly care as his only intent tonight was to get entirely plastered long enough to forget , at least for a time.

He almost could have tuned out the voice that came from beside him that sounded so very formal, not at all like someone that frequented this place. If it were not for that brazen eye contact, he would have thought he was talking to someone else altogether, but in all actuality, one man was passed out and the other was spouting belligerent tales that hardly made any sense. The formal man faltered as though he veered topic mid-sentence. His head pivoted to peer at the duo, his silver eyes that matched very blood than coursed through the warlock's veins astutely assessed the man and the burly other one that suddenly stood before him. A slight frown found his features at he attempted to recall who he had pissed off in the last months. He had never seen this man before and he certainly didn't belong here, he was already getting looks from someone people in the crowd, some people even flat out gawked but then returned to their rowdy bustle. Another thing he could pick up, wasn't by sight alone but by feeling, he was hardly human either. He was old.. not in looks, but his energy was what betrayed him. He was not a blood sucker or a fellow warlock, no, he could have sensed that through that magical bond but he something else entirely. Magic still clung to the man. Interesting. He raised a brow, slightly confused by the situation and perhaps even suspicious of the man in fancy clothes. That was when he veered into another direction, catching the warlock off guard completely. It provoked a bellow of laughter to his lips and then a moment of consideration, did he hear him correctly?

Did he have a boat? Yeah. Did he pilfer when he wanted to? Well he could deny it all he wanted but he knew that slippery slope of a truth. Was he at a tavern surrounded by a bunch of hooligans? Uh, also check. Perhaps he was more a pirate than he had realized.. Yet they were all labels. Labels he couldn't give a rats ass about. To Brennan, you were either foe or potential threat until proven otherwise, unless you were woman then that was a bit of a grey area. But he certainly didn't have a crew, nor did he go around forcing people to walk the plank. He was more of a one-man show, isolated and weary of strangers.

Being asked if he was a pirate, well that was a first. "Well that depends on who you ask." He responded neither admitting to it nor denying. His callused and scarred hand lifted the cup containing the ocher hued drink, bringing it to his lips before downing in one mouthful. That familiar burn felt good to him and he wanted to make sure if he was in shit with this formally dressed stranger than he wanted to at least have one true shot in him. "..and what are you? You sure as hell aren't human." The warlock raised a brow in question.

The way that those men loomed over him, he couldn't help but shake if he were in trouble somehow. Of course, he had his exits already mapped out and any weapon one could possibly imagine at his very fingertips. All he had to do was will it into existence. It was a nifty trick, one that seemed more like a luxury in this cityscape setting rather than a means for survival. It was hard to turn that trigger happy aspect off as the need for survival became instinctual.

"So did you come here to drink? Or is there some score to settle?" He kept both men in view and yet he remained nonchalant as though he owned the place. "I can help with one of those things." The Irish man's lips curled into a mischievous grin, his silver-stone grey eyes glinting as he did. At the end of the day, the question remained, who in the bloody hell were these men and what the hell did they want with the likes of him?

"I'd try the top shelf whiskey, black label. If I were you." There wasn't a doubt that the man could afford it, he could smell the rich ones a mile away. He gestured with his idle hand toward those highly coveted, but obscenely overpriced bottles up top. At least now, he could either figure out their motives. Or perhaps, amusedly fool them into paying a ridiculously high price.

Brennan O'Connell