Toledo Lounge

[Sprolf]

A man - well, man didn't really do him justice. He was an old man, with a worn face and greyed, wavy hair, the marks of years visible all over him - walked - more like limped, favouring one leg over the other, testament to some old injury - into the bar - which was just the normal, dingy bar on Toledo. His dim blue eyes swept over the room; looking for enemies, or perhaps even friends; as he moved across it, toward the bar. He didn't frequent this establishment, but received knowing glance from one or two of the patrons. The bartender already glanced back at a line of bottles on the wall, at least one of which he knew would soon be sol.

This man walking in was wearing a black greatcoat that wasn't entirely regulation, which was stained with some rather questionable materials stains here and there. He was in the process of unbuttoning, to reveal a dark grey uniform of unorthodox design (more like a suit), as he walked across the room with his limping stride.

He settled heavily on a stool a few down from Chris and Porter, giving them a less than subtle glance of recognition and a dismissive wave of his gloved hand as he placed a large credit card on the counter, pointing a bottle of whiskey out for the bartender.

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