Lincoln really isn't sure how much he's had to drink so far. He also really hadn't intended to drink this much, maybe one, two... possibly seven or eight... He had a feeling that the true number was better off left a mystery. Just like the reason that his sweet Marie had come crying to him two days ago, saying she couldn't see him anymore. Damn, he felt a fool.

Lifting his glass up to the dim light, made dimmer by the heavy cigar smoke permeating the room, Lincoln shifts the angle of the weathered glass he had grown pathetically familiar with this afternoon, marveling at the way the amber liquid shifted in the light. His grey-green eyes impassively following the journey of a stream of spilled alcohol, displaced by the lackadaisical tilting of his glass.

His thoughts stray and through the haze he hears a boisterous group of men begin discussing the arrival of a steamboat in the harbor earlier that day. Despite his inebriated state Lincoln manages to catch her name and match it to a face. Not just any face either. One he hadn't seen for a year and a half. The face of the man lincoln had known since he barely came up to his fathers waist, the face of Will Laurent. That open and trustworthy face, permanently fitted with a wide grin that meant trouble in more ways than one. That face lightly dusted with dark freckles reaching across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. That face topped with a wild, unruly mess of slightly dark orange hair, cut fairly short on the sides and left in a carless mop that extends to just above his eyes on the top, peculiar not only in it's color, but also in it's tendency to become lighter from hours spent in the sun and then take on the appearance of an ombre flame. The true danger lies in his eyes though. His eyes, a burst of striking clear blue, such a light and seemingly innocent color, yet so much presence, so much emotion, to be seen through them. The way they take on the appearance of finely blown glass when they glint in the harsh summer sun as that unmistakable grin splits his face, and his head tilts to the side and he peers at you through the tangle of hair and you just know that whatever damn foolish idea he just had you'll go along with, because what else can you do.

Lincoln is shaken back to the present when a loud clatter alerts him that his fingers have decided to go rouge and his now empty glass is threatening to roll off the beat up wooden table Lincoln is occupying. Deciding to blame his strange thoughts on the liquor he shakes his head as if that will dispel them *I'll take that as my cue to head off* he mentally groans, throwing down what he hopes covers the cost of the drinks. Wiping his brow of sweat with the back if his forearm, he turns to go, pulling on his long-coat in the same motion. Lincoln started to stride unevenly towards the door, the alcohol taking a toll on his coordination when an unexpected gust of freezing winter wind yanks a sharp gasp out of him. Whipping up his face to stare at the doorway, Lincoln takes an unintentional step back when he sees a wild shake of hair tossing snow into the air and a pair of striking blue eyes rise up from the floor to gaze slyly around the dusky pub. The young man is none other than the 20 year old Will Laurent himself.