For all that Guts lacked obvious enthusiasm about the drink, his cup is empty by the time Lashan starts considering another round, and he passes it back without a second thought. He wouldn't mind having another. And maybe another?

He wonders how many of them might make his nerves numb over a little. Remembering the dull pain of his shins, he finally decides to take a seat on an empty bench.

"That's all? Faster than wine."

Vague memories of traveling through warmer climes, hearing villagers talk about their harvests and their heavy wooden barrels full of rotting grapes. Let them rot long enough and it becomes something desirable again. Or something.

He ponders the question while staring at the refilled cup, watching as the airag leaves a light film on the inside. After fleeing from Gambino's camp, no stranger cared enough to ask him such things.

"Move South." he says, after a long bout of silence. "There's always someplace where the snow don't reach. Somebody'll need a sword for something."

As he emerged from his early childhood, he started to find finances to be less of a problem the more he threw himself into his career as a killer. His upkeep included food and his sword, leaving plenty to be made otherwise. The cobbled together armor had held together well enough given the beatings he'd gone through.