The Scamp Gang had been laughing in hushed tones, their hoods pulled low, when their gazes inevitably drifted toward the lone figure drinking Nightmare's Fang at the corner table.
The person's face was obscured, but his mannerisms were sluggish—lifting his glass slowly, never looking up, his cloak draped lazily over his frame. To the gang, it was the picture of a man already drowning in liquor.
The fourth brother snorted quietly, whispering with derision, "Look at him. He's wasted. Spent a fortune on that drink, too. Probably some pampered noble who wandered too far from his nest."
The eldest brother hushed him with a glare, but Scamp's grin widened, sharp and sly. His jagged teeth glimmered faintly as he leaned forward, voice low and oily, "Old fourth has to point. He's drinking the Nightmare's Fang,"
Scamp whispered, tapping his finger against his palm, "This bottle alone screams he's rich. Richer than most here tonight. But…"
