Fyodor slipped the gate-key back into his pocket and sighed alongside Wynvere when Ulgad announced that they would be stopping for a drink before continuing on. It bothered him that they would so quickly stop to drink when they had business to see to down in the outlands. So what if the bartender would be offended if they simply passed through? Her fondness or lack thereof mattered about as much as anything else in the multiverse did, which was to say it did not matter at all. Even so, Fyodor made his way over to the bar as he fished the last piece of silver he had out of his coin pouch, holding his thumb over the profiled visage that had been stamped onto the coin so that he wouldn't accidentally glimpse it and start remembering things he would rather leave forgotten. It didn't matter if they offended the Wayfarer's proprietor, but ultimately it also didn't matter if they stopped for a drink for the sake of pleasing the old woman either.
Fyodor took a seat at the bar next to Wynvere and set his silver coin down on the counter, covering it with his hand so that he didn't have to look at it.
"Do you have a silver piece on you?" Fyodor asked his cold companion.
"A pitcher of common wine should be enough for our fellowship. But that usually costs two silvers. I only have the one." Since his arrival to Sigil, Fyodor had been more generous with his coin than the average Bleaker of his rank usually was. And while much of this had been due to his feelings of obligation towards the faction that had saved his life, the more insightful folk that knew him would have quickly discerned that there was another goal to his zealous charity beyond gratitude. Though it had taken him a little over a year to finally achieve that goal, it seemed that coincidence had decided to wait for the most entertaining moment for him to come down to his last coin from the land he had left behind.
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