"He'd be better trying it with Coën." Eskel says. "Coën's like me...man with an ugly face knows how to make do with what he can get." He says, gesturing to the side of his face that corresponds with the side of Coën's that ravaged by smallpox scars, his eye that was somehow unchanged by his trials because of the damage done to his body by the disease.

Eskel's quiet for a moment, draining his cup of white gull. Unlike most alcohol, it hits his system quickly and he feel blissfully dizzy and a little numb.

"I'm glad. That you're not mad, I mean." He says, his head slumping between his shoulders, like a wolf that bows to beg forgiveness. "I don't think I could take you bein' anymore pissed at me than you already are."