The festivities had barely begun, but Gilead had gotten an early start on the drinking. Already his breath was probably enough to make a lesser man tipsy, just from the smell. Sadly, Gilead's robust constitution worked against him, and despite his best efforts, he remained depressingly sober, his body purifying the alcohol almost as fast as he could quaff it down. Just one of the many curses his divine favor afforded him.<br/><br/>Throwing back another tankard, he slammed it down on the table for a replacement, almost managing to keep one nubile neophyte in work all on his own. He cast his eyes about the room wearily, gazing around at the murderous company with which he'd taken to keeping, for some form of entertainment. Truthfully, he couldn't give less of a damn about being recognized as an elite, he was just there for the free booze, and perhaps a woman or two to share his bunk for the night, if fate was feeling generous.<br/><br/>And to step in when things got out of hand, of course. Nothing like a good brawl to get a party going. A few customers the next morning wouldn't go amiss either, to top off his purse. Recently, it had been getting depressingly small. There'd been something of a dearth of jobs of late that suited his talents.<br/><br/>Wiping the last of his latest drink from his mouth with the back of his hand, he strolled in the direction of the banquet tables, intent on helping himself to the choicest bits before the rest of the guild-members plucked up the courage to approach. After spending so many years on a battlefield, passing up a free feed was something his conscience simply wouldn't allow him to do. Right now, it seemed the assassins' distrust of the cook was working in his favor. He plucked a large mutton shank, roasted flesh oozing fat, and almost falling off the bone, from the table, flashing a smirk at the person who had been hesitantly eyeing it, daring them to object.