"You! How dare you use that parlance on me?!"
Looking at Count Hamlin, Hadron knew that he wouldn't be able to reason with the man.
From his hair, utterly dry and curled like corkscrews, to his clothes that were patchy and full of stains. Everything about the Count screamed that he wouldn't be anywhere reasonable.
The smell of alcohol wafted near Hadron's nose, making him want to take a shot of bourbon himself.
Hadron belonged to the group of Nobles who disliked seeing unkempt Nobles. Even the poorest among them had the capability to buy decent clothes. Decency and conscience would be the perfect jewelry for their tailored garments.
"That should be my question, Count Hamlin. I don't suppose you're unaware of the difference in our status?"
He truly wasn't planning on conversing further with the Count, but the Hamlins had a special place in his ragged heart.
A place filled with nothing but the dead tissues of his enmity.
