Sure enough the man turned up on time, and unsurprisingly his cheeks were red with a good afternoon drink; Zoey wouldn't call him drunk, but he was on the way. The evening was of course young, and he always had preferred to drink under someone else's hospitality; either through being a miser, or through some vague sense that it was less of a socially shunned way to do things. She didn't give him too long, once Quentin opened the first bottle. Beyond that most pressing feature, Zoey's father, Terrance, was as she remembered; tall, average set, and with swiftly graying hair and slowly dullening eyes. In his youth, she was told, he had been a brilliant man... Now he was a rampant gambler, drinker, and attempting to add womanizer to the list, though he wasn't quite so lucky with that as he would like to be.<br/><br/>He glanced his daughter up and down, his face turning from mild annoyance at being here to a sort of stunned disgust at seeing his daughter paraded so. He saw the marks on her skin - hell he saw more of her skin than he'd like! - and the way her head hung, bereft of the pride it had once carried. He had expected to see her.... But this was too much. Anger swelled in him and he gritted his teeth as he marched up to the girl. "Where is the shit of a man who paraded you out like this? Huh? Where the bloody hell is Quentin fucking Aritas?"<br/><br/>It was a typical reaction for him; to feel a rush of anger rather than to try and help his daughter. In some way he was probably trying to protect her... It was just in a rather useless, feeble way. He'd rant at Quentin, and succeed in nothing; even if Zoey wanted help, her father was not able to provide it. Instead he followed at her back, fuming, while she lead him up toward where Quentin was waiting.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>