The Tavern door creaked open, the hinges asking, rather impolitely, for a tickle of oil. In the door frame stood a tall, slender man in a tattered overcoat that seemed rather large, even for him. No one seemed to notice him, their drinks and company seemingly a far better distraction. This was The Nameless Tavern after all, and he was no one to be noticed. The figure sauntered to a stool near the wall at the bar, he did not take a seat, instead just stood at least for the moment. His long matted and somewhat dreaded hairstyle was piled ever so carelessly on top of his 6'8(206ish cm) frame. This seemed to be due to some sort of style attempt that had long gone wrong and for reasons unknown, at least that's what he always told himself. The beard he wore was as rough as the rest of him, bushy and unkempt hiding a muted facial expression and a chin with a dent so severe some may have thought it was actually a wound, or scar. If only; he was in fact so uninteresting that he could only dream of such fantasy. His cold and tired gaze was kept forward peering under a furrowed brow, his hazel eyes were the only sign of life withing this man.
He stood as if he were suspended in time, not a twitch or a blink. The gentleman seemed unfazed by the action and chaos all around him. His stoic nature continued as he began to lose himself in thought, mesmerized by the wood grain in the bar top.
The aforementioned coat he wore hung upon his frail frame the way a coat just hangs upon the coat and hat rack on which it is placed, lifeless and mostly vacant. It was pilled and patched, made of a felt or tweed, and dark though not for any particular reason other than it had probably never been thoroughly cleaned. The trousers he sported were rather plain as well, a simple dull black, that was now turning gray, similar to the way a mans hair turns gray from age. His clothes all well worn, the boots however seemed new. This was nothing strange except for the fact that they were, in fact new.... He broke from his petrified stance and sat on the rather comfortable wooden stool. Hands gracefully placed on the bar as he stared off into space and time. As the bartender finally met the mans gaze, he pondered for a moment and then, in an almost whisper, which if were spoken any softer would have sounded like a sonic boom simply spoke;
"Name's Marley, whiskey please"
The figure sat patiently and awaited his drink.
