Neil walsk through the aged door of the tavern, walking at a steady regulated pace towards a table half cast in shadow half illuminated by the light above the bar, observing all other occupants such as him who have taken shelter from the cold. "Bar keep" he says in a low tone "A tipple of your most geriatric scotch if it pleases you, and one for yourself, my bones are telling me this shall be a bitter night, have a swig of liquid warmth on my coin". Reaching into his inside left jacket pocket, he draws a black cigarette case, removes one, striking a match all in the bar turn at the sound of the scratch, as if they hadnt noticed him walk in, their expressions implying they rather think he appeared from the shadows of the small pub themselves.