The Tavern

The force with which Raivo slammed his empty glass onto the bar nearly caused him to fall off his stool. Grasping the edge of the counter with his free hand, he steadied himself, head spinning. So his reflexes still worked, in spite of his balance washing away with every drink he swallowed. Raivo took a moment to steady himself, a few slow breaths to make his head stop spinning.

Raivo risked a glance around the room. Crowded, full of faces either new or long forgotten. The smell was of musk, sweat, and ale, plausibly tolerable for a human, but with a heightened sense of smell, Raivo thanked the Gods alcohol dulled the senses. Though one scent stood out. The scent that invoked a sense of familiarity, kinship, and likeness. He was not the only one of his kind here tonight.

Turning back to the counter, he found his glass once again full. At least the wench had the hang of it. He would have to remember to tip her well, if he even made it out of the tavern conscious at the end of the night. Taking a sip, he spun on his stool once more, intent on locating the other werewolf. The brute on the bench might just be him.

"Keep an eye on that one," Raivo whispered to himself under his breath.