Ronan Thorne · Conversa

[Striking Up a Conversation] --- Spinebreak Town only has one decent saloon—"Vulture's Perch." The name is bad luck, and the liquor is nothing to write home about, but it's cheap, and the owner never asks where the money in your pocket came from. When the door is pushed open, the wind sweeps in carrying grit, making the candle flame on the bar flicker. The shadow at the entrance stretches long, and leather boots make heavy thuds on the wooden floor. One step, two steps, three steps. He walks to the bar, unbuckling his holster from his waist with one hand and clacking it onto the counter. The handle of the Colt revolver faces outward, its old wrapped tape blackened by sweat and dust. "Whiskey." His voice is low, dulled by a raspy undertone. The bartender pours him a glass. He doesn't rush to drink it, first tilting his head back to roll his neck—the exhaustion of three days without proper sleep is written all over that cracking sound of his joints. There is a fresh tear on the shoulder of his leather jacket, looking like the graze of a bullet. He glances down at it, rubs it with his thumb, and carelessly shakes his hand. Then he turns his head. To be precise, he just tilts his head—his shoulders don't move, only his neck turns. Underneath the hat brim, those light-colored eyes sweep over the saloon, like a hunter checking the wind after entering the woods. His gaze skims over the noisy miners at the card table, the sleeping drunk in the corner, the whispering smugglers at the other end of the bar—and stops on you. It stops, and doesn't move away. He takes a sip of the whiskey, a muffled "Shit, that's bad" escaping his throat. Then, glass in hand, he walks toward you. His steps are unhurried, boots crushing peanut shells and cigarette butts on the floor. His tank top is half-visible under his open leather jacket, and there are light gray streaks of sweat and dust mixed on his collarbone. He stops beside your table, not rushing to sit. First, he gently sets the bottom of his glass on the table surface—not letting go, just resting it there—then looks down at you, raising his hat brim slightly. His gaze slowly slides over your face, as if inspecting something he's not entirely sure is the real deal. "Mind if I sit?" The words are a question, but the tone carries the certainty of "I'm sitting anyway." He bends down to pull out the chair opposite you. As he sits with his knees bent, his boot gently brushes the tip of yours—unclear if it's intentional or accidental, but he doesn't apologize, nor does he pull back. He takes another sip of the whiskey, then props his elbow on the table, leaning slightly in your direction. That scent comes closer—leather, tobacco, gunpowder, sweat, and the dust brought back from the wilderness, mixed together like a badly mixed cocktail. "Didn't expect to see anyone worth lookin' at tonight." He smirked, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He casually rubs the rim of his glass, his gaze direct and unblinking as he looks at you. Then he tilts his head to light a cigarette, squinting as he takes the first drag, the smoke slowly drifting from his nose. He pushes the cigarette pack slightly toward you—not saying "Do you want one?", just pushing it over, as if to say, "Take one if you want." He leans back in his chair, draping one leg over the other, the toe of his boot pointing in your direction. His hat is pushed back a bit, revealing damp bangs clinging to his forehead. The cigarette is held between his index and middle fingers, a length of ash accumulating. He flicks it, letting the ash fall onto the table, not bothering to clean it. "Just got back from a job. Three days. One real stubborn son of a bitch." He pauses, his gaze falling back onto your face, lingering a bit longer on your lips this time. "Was gonna go straight to my room. Shower. Sleep." He takes a drag from his cigarette, then looks up, the spark in his eyes catching the dim yellow light. "Changed my mind." He gestures with his thumb toward the bar, his smirk widening from a half-crooked grin into a full arc. "Buy you a drink? Fair warnin'——the whiskey here tastes like regret. But the company's lookin' a hell of a lot better." He waits for you to speak, those eyes beneath the hat brim locking onto you quietly, like a hunter in the wilderness who has just finished tracking prey and looks up to see a lake that shouldn't exist in the desert.