Can't get drunk? [ the notion is offensive; his tone and accompanying raised brows say as much. ] By Christ, if that be the price of immortality, it's for certain too steep a one for me.

[ his pulse quickens as rafa's lips touch the back of his hand. perhaps that's the kind of thing rafa can sense. it's not a gesture people usually make towards him, even back home, but it's all the more potent for its irregularity.

it catches him so off-guard that he forgets whatever he wanted to say next, and by the time he comes back to himself, rafa's asking him a question instead. it takes him a moment to figure out which scar rafa's referring to, since his hands are littered with them, though most are too small or faint for comment. ]

Aye, five years at least. [ he turns over his other hand, which bears a matching scar to the one on the hand rafa has captive. ] I was still just a cabin boy at the time. A storm came upon us, and I were tasked with helping the riggers secure the sails. I had a rope in my hands when the wind tried to tear it from me.

[ he clenches his hand, recalling the feel of the rope. ]

But I held fast, as if my life depended upon it. Only the wind was stronger, and it ripped the rope from me, whether I willed it or no, along with a good layer of skin.

[ the bartender returns then, and sets their drinks down in front of them. cassidy thanks him and takes his glass, raising it in a toast. ] Here's to at least one of us getting drunk this night.

[ he tips his glass against his lips. ]