[Weir makes a noise that sounds like a displeased grunt stuck in the hollow of his throat. He reaches for his glass, tips it back for a small sip — swill that it may be, he seems to take to it better than the pastry. Maybe his bar for “disgusting” these days has been lowered straight into the dirt, for good or ill.

Setting the glass down—]

Saving the “better” vintage for later means you’ll have none waiting for you when you return. The people here are already eager to scavenge as they please.

[And that does include Weir, who’s foisted off a collection of strange herbs and weird jarred substances from the “psychic” shop, currently housed in the beat up satchel slung over his shoulder crossbody-style.]