"Eh, good. S'be bad iffin bein' dead still hurt this much," he muttered, blearily looking around the bar. "When th'fuck izzit?" he asked, loudly. The bartender seemed to have heard - unsurprising, given it was the only conversation happening, and replied, "Dawn's in about five hours. And you can just pay me directly, lass, it might start making a dent in his tab." "'M good fer it, an' you fuckin' know it, s'bring me another ale!"<br/><br/>Seven-Finger Steve (with four fingers) gingerly took the box, and started examining it like it was the first time he'd seen it. "Wazzat the price? Must've been," he said, muttering to himself as he looked it over. Despite his drunken stupor, he seemed to know what he was looking at. Setting it down, he examined the coins, next, before sweeping them into his pouch, pulling out some tools, in the process, getting to work, as the bartender delivered the ale, apparently not really caring who saw, at this hour. He alternated between working the lock, and gulping down the amber liquid. It took several minutes of careful work before...<em>click.</em><br/><br/>"An' there ye go," he said, sliding the unlocked box back over to her. "Careful not t' close it, or it'll lock 'gain."