<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button"> Mechanics</div><div class="spoiler_body">1d20+13-10 (drunk penalty): 16 (13)</div></div><br/>Lukas smirks and sheathes his blade, the smile on his face quickly becoming forced.<br/><br/>"Yea... they were<em>aaaall</em>about havin' someone to do a bit with knives. Commoners are always sooo fascinated by blades." Out of the corner of his eye, the thief notices Tamara's attempt to "subtly" switch out the bottles, and he turns to say something... but a memory every bit as unpleasant as his time trying to live a circus performer's life comes to mind, and he ends up just shaking his head. Of course, the action just seems to make the alcohol fog worse... so the rogue just puts his own 3/4 empty bottle down on the table and looks away.<br/><br/>"Whaddya think we're gonna do about the bed?" He asks, a bit quieter now. "Same thing I've been doin'... the bed is scratchy an' the blanket sucks, so -hc- I'm gonna sleep by the fire where it's nice and warm. You can take that ratty bed if ya want it."<br/><br/>With a grunt, the thief drops back down to sit on the floor, and leans back against the wall. All the fun has gone out of this particular bottle of whiskey, now all he wants is for sleep to come and take him before he has to remember or tell more.