If we're not supposed to dance
Then why all the music?
The Wanderer watched. The grey and white dog dragon sat in a cozy corner of the Capricorn Tavern, warm drink in front of them, one that was more likely then not a crap ton of alcohol. Were they old enough to drink alcohol? The question briefly flew by, but was easily dismissed with a "eh" and a healthy helping of the stuff.
To tell the truth, Wanderer didn't know a lot of things. Their age, family, and even name alluded them for so long that they had just stopped caring - but what they did know was where they where. If they weren't mistaken, that is. It'd make a funny story. They smirked, eyes washing over the crowd.
The Typhoons. Home of cut throat pirates and treasure and stories - but everyone knew that. And everyone knew it was the place of adventures. Their mouth practically began to salivate. Stories. They flitted from people's mouths, dribbled from their wounds, and hid in their little movements. But only if you watch.
And so they did.
And they watched.
And they watched.
And they watched.
And they got bored.
And they watched.
And then they got up to get another drink.
Oh no
Hope nothing intresting happens to me
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