Liquor And Blood

An odd customer came in today. Rugged man, tall and morose. A knight of sorts, or mercenary, though I've never seen his insignia here before. Clearly, he had one too many sips of wine already — or grog, I suspect. He had no gold, so I tried to send 'em away, but it was in vain. Kept slurring his words, eyes wide and bloodshot, pointing at the rum on the topmost shelf with his gloved hand, almost too heavy to hold up straight. His arms kept sinking to the counter mid-motion, veering about as if his body couldn't keep pace with his demands, or as if his limbs were made from wet sacks of grain. Aggravated by his own limpness and lack of liquor, he tore off his gauntlets and tossed them across the room, growling. I ducked underneath the bar. When I saw his bare hand reach across the counter from below and grip the edge, I feared he might lunge toward me... but instead, he scrambled across, tumbled to the floor, and shuffled to the liquor rack. He had put the bottle to his lips before crossing the doorstep and shambling back outside. His gauntlets are the only trace he left. They seem valuable. I've stored them in the attic for now, should he return with a clearer head and fuller pockets.