Rolan’s skepticism softened just a touch, his curiosity piqued in spite of himself. “And you expect me to believe you have that kind of knowledge? You—who can’t cast a single spell?” Rugan chuckled, entirely unbothered. “Believe what y’like, lad” he said, “but it ain’t always the mage that gets his hands on the good stuff. Sometimes it’s the one who knows where t’look.”  He tipped his goblet toward Rolan, a spark of challenge in his eyes. “Or, if you’d rather go it alone, that’s fair enough. But you’d be missing out, wouldn’t ya?” Rolan traced the edge of his book with a clawed finger, trying to maintain an air of indifference. “And why,” he finally asked, looking up through his lashes, “exactly would you be telling me this?”

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, Rolan reached for the tankard the man had offered. His pride prickled at the thought of accepting anything from him, but he was too irritated to care. He lifted the drink to his lips, not bothering with a word of thanks. The human’s smirk widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "That’s the spirit," he said with a playful grin, raising his own drink in a toast. "No hard feelings, eh?" Rolan set the tankard down with a little more force than necessary, his glare still fixed on him. "I don’t make friends with insufferable drunks," he muttered, though the bite in his voice had softened. The man chuckled, leaning in closer as though sharing a private joke. "Who said anything about being friends?" he replied, his voice light. His eyes lazily roved over Rolan, and it was clear that he liked what he saw. Rolan’s cheeks burned, a deep flush creeping up his neck, and despite the dim lighting of the tavern, he was sure the redness in his face was visible. The fact that this man—this arrogant, infuriating man—had managed to unsettle him so thoroughly only made the heat of his embarrassment burn hotter. The air in the room felt stifling, thick with the heat of the crowd and the weight of the human’s attention pressing down on him. Rolan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, his usually sharp mind maddeningly blank. With no clever comeback at the ready, Rolan did the only thing he could think of to avoid looking like a fool—he took another sip of the ale. The bitter, stale taste hit his tongue immediately, causing his face to twist in disgust. The drink was vile, no better than swill served to common laborers. He much preferred wine—something refined, something suited to his tastes—but admitting that now would only make him look worse in the eyes of the man. The human’s eyes were sharp as they tracked every flicker of discomfort on Rolan’s face. "Not to your liking, eh?" he teased. Rolan swallowed hard, forcing the ale down, fighting back the shudder that threatened to betray him. He straightened his back, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “It’s... fine,” he muttered, placing the tankard on the table with a little too much force. He arched an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the weak defense. "Fine, huh? Funny, you don’t look like you’re enjoying it." Rolan scowled. “I didn’t realize I was here to be entertained by your riveting commentary.” He chuckled, leaning forward just enough to close the space between them. The spark in those blue eyes was captivating. "Oh, I’m entertained, all right. Never seen someone try so hard to choke down a drink they hate." Rolan opened his mouth to fire back, but the words caught in his throat, swallowed up by the frustrating sense of being cornered. Instead, he grabbed the tankard again, more for something to do with his hands than anything else. “It’s none of your concern,” he muttered before taking another reluctant sip. The taste, unsurprisingly, hadn’t improved.