I've sailed a thousand oceans to be here in your arms.

Brennan had eyed that Irish pub from the first moment he passed it from across that street, the warlock undoubtedly tempted as the sun began to set. Once he had run that errand of his and a thick stack of easy money later. He certainly had no qualms spending those earnings. There was nothing to keep him away. It was perhaps earlier than usual preference, but pangs of hunger reminded him that he had needs. The spring wind brushed against his coat that was left open, the man slipping through the front door of that eastern pub into an environment the Irish warlock found familiar despite it being his first time in this particular establishment.

He strode in with his usual confident swagger, like he frequented this place and yet to him they were all the same... despite this one being a little newer, fancier, and perhaps, cleaner than his usual haunts in the west. He sliced across the bar with single-minded purpose, straight toward the beacon at the back. The well stocked bar calling to him like a siren on rocky shores brought a relieved sigh to his lips. He was not alone, not that he suspected he would be, he could hear the murmur of voices of those sitting at tables. But the bar was usually left abandoned at this time. It was impossible to miss the bright haired blonde who already perched at the bar with shopping bags scattered about her feet at the base of that barstool. Count on him to notice any woman within his radius, noting how eager that barkeep seemed quite eager to serve her.

He never understood woman's love for shopping, the warlock was sure to lose his damn mind in those retail shops for hours on end. How could woman stare at the same racks for hours on end? No, he would much rather see the pretty outfits after the fact. He was an appreciator of many things after all. But it was the sweet promise of whiskey that called to him, running hand through his messy sea-swept hair that did little but ruffle it up all the more. Perhaps some pub faire wouldn't be so bad, after all, whiskey did not satisfy the bite of hunger. Curse him twice over, he still had a hankering for fish and chips since the last attempt had literally been burnt to a crisp.

Wordlessly, he found his preferred seat at any given bar, like a creature of habit. All before shrugging off the dark brown bomber leather jacket. He placed it on the stool beside him, pushing up the dark sleeves of his button-up shirt that he always wore with one too many buttons undone. It was undetermined if it was on purpose to draw the eye or it was merely out of laziness, but it exposed his strong chest to display just a tiny smattering of chest hair. It would appear it was not only men who appreciated cleavage, even of the male variety. How many countless times he had caught the wandering eye of even the shyest of lasses. Shifting on the barstool, he let those silvery blue eyes habitually scan his surroundings as if looking for something within those shadows. His calloused fingers traced that very mark on his inner arm, content to find it pale and lifeless. The last thing he needed was for the thing to start glowing. Nothing ever bothered him in those pubs. It always had been a kind of sanctuary for him and he would like to keep it that way. Just as he still chose to cling to the outskirts, concealing himself as much in shadows as possible but the ability to see it all before he was noticed.

How he liked to think those shadows made him almost appear menacing with that faded scar he proudly wore just beneath his right eye. A few inches higher and he just might have lost the eye. Like he needed any more people to accuse him of being a pirate, not that he could blame them in their assumptions. It wasn't like he tried to prove them wrong. It was the sound of the blond woman's feminine voice a few stools over, that drew his silvery-blue eyes to her direction. Noting how the light behind the bar lit her features. At first, the warlock merely observed, taking in the interaction with a sort of casual, vague interest as the barkeep rose a finger to signal that he would be with him in one moment.

The bartender seemed to be wrapped around her finger, how could he not when she flashed a hopeless grin like that and asked for any recommendations. It was his generic reply that annoyed him most. They always recommended the items he would not even call Irish. Bangers and mash, Shepherds pie.. Hell. That sounded far more British than anything. What was Scotch doing lining the shelves of an Irish bar?? A hardly subtle judgmental scoff left his lips even though he never expected much when it came to Americanized 'Irish' pubs. Yet he could still not stop that formed habit of inserting himself with an all too brusque sound which only earned him a brief quizzical look from that bartender. Good, might as well make it seem like he was simply trying to get his attention to order.

He didn't need to see a menu to know that most Irish Pubs had, those similar staples. "I will have the fish and chips." His Irish accented voice finally rose confidently, piercing the deceptive veil of quiet that surrounded him. He hoped the lack of liveliness only had to do with the time and not the actual establishment. He distractedly noticed the bartender pouring some Jameson she had ordered before scanning the shelf of whiskeys with a frown, even though he was hardly a man that was too picky. "No Redbreast?" Although it was more of a statement than a question. The bartender shook his head politely only to give that glass to the woman before saying 'no' and explaining how impressive their selection was. The same song and dance about having the most selection in that city. Yet Brennan already grew distracted. "Yeah." It was a rarity, most women preferring their sweet, girly cocktails. Not this one. Even though she did appear to be girlie to his standards.

"Fine, just give me what you gave the lass. It's been a while since I had Jameson anyways. That Writer's Tears sounds..... interesting. Never heard of it before, seems little too poetic for my tastes.." His thick Irish brogue rang clearly as he gestured smoothly toward the woman a few stools over. His arm resting on the bar countertop, leaning heavily into it as he half faced her as the barkeep went to work.

" Sometimes I wonder why I go to these places when the most Irish thing in them are a few bottles of whiskey... that and me, of course. You think I would be used to it by now." The Irish warlock spoke out loud, accent clear. He waited for when the bartender was out of earshot, his gaze clearly landing on the blonde a few seats down with a roguish smirk already plucking at the corner of his lips.

Brennan O'Connell

a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor