Tequila isn't quite so acquainted with merchants, he's never even shopped before - always relying on others to find resources for them, using his blindness to make others immediately offer to help him with such 'miserable' needs. He's known merchants and all kinds of numskull traders to come around every so often but they're usually around to sell items such as accessories, food or other aesthetic wears. All things that Tequila found quite useless or unappealing. This time, however, the sightless boy notices the sweet smell of alcohol, seemingly possessed by the allure of the wafting scent that he begins to walk. He reminds himself of a fish, drawn to bait to be pulled out of water, splutter and die. Maybe, he thinks, he's just feeling paranoid...or excited even. He's never once felt any interest in trading, never once paid much attention to the merchants who came by. Unless they themselves were naive and planned to stay and watch their shows, Tequila was increasingly dispassionate about their affairs and business. They were selfish people to him, riding on the wild (and well deserved if he is honest) rumours of The Berserkers and assuming them to be crazy or deprived enough to take just about anything.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair as he approaches the man waiting about. He senses a...displeasure upon his face, though unable to make out the exact details of the wrinkles which lined the man's skin through his echolocation. He supposes he is just assuming by now that the man is only here for business in the same way Tequila was only here for a bottle of wine. "A handsome face approaches our borders," the boy smiles in greeting with a nonchalant wave of his hand, keeping superior detachment to the stranger. He is usually friendly, but only God knew what truly lurked in the ghostly boy's mind: a disgustingly critical judgement of everyone and everything. "Jean-Jacques. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm mainly known as Tequila around these parts so I'd prefer we kept at that basis." If his eyes hadn't been covered by his bandages and overgrown fringe, Matt might have caught the cheeky squint of his eyes glistening towards him in an almost malicious manner. "Is that wine I smell?"

Tequila has a good nose. Sometimes, on a good day, the boy was able to detect the traces of what someone had only just eaten - the very crust of bread once on their hands. The moment a scent touches his nose, his mind locks. Every other smell drifting and circling the air became no more, like nothingness because every ounce of his being is focused on that smell. Tequila can't further explain what drew him towards the merchant's cart, but he certainly notices the lack of a steed or even a bull carrying the cargo. Perhaps this merchant had the strength of ten men, rippled. He says nothing to the male's sarcastic reply, raising his head when he recognised the sound of footsteps coming towards him. The boy presses his lips gently together, twirling his fingers about his bobbed hair as he tried to figure out who this person happened to be. A woman, most likely, but the feminine grace which enshrouded the woman's very stride. Cleopatra. Tequila offers only a weak smile at her words towards the man being handsome. He wouldn't know and he never really cared. From experimentation, the adolescent had come to learn that creatures liked to be complimented, and that people liked to see a bit of cheekiness.

He doesn't think much about his blindness. He tends to keep his bandages as hidden as possible, only visible through unfortunate partings of his hair or when the wind blew at his face. When he was younger someone had told him that his eyes looked unsightly and bandages looked only...unsettling, as if he had been injured. He took the liberty to take some care about his appearance, having done it so many times and neatly trimming his hair so often that the very pattern was a simple routine. He felt at ease falling into line, following this tradition and mapping his own face that he never felt confused. Systematic, machine-like. It was natural to him, ingrained into his very being. He worked so well without his eyes that he never really sought the need to tell others that he couldn't see. It was like asking for others to excuse him for his weakness, a weakness that hardly bothered him unless someone wanted him to choose one colour versus another.

"Ah, you're funny. How much for just one bottle?"