Let's just assume everyone in here doesn't like me

 Thunder cracked overhead like a gunshot, carrying a torrent of cold rain down with it. Lightning flickered in the murky sky, far too close for comfort. A bloated gutter snapped and unhinged from its eave, swinging out at an angle, gallons of water gushing out from it.

 An unfortunately large amount of said water spattered onto Mochrie’s waxed cloak with enough weight to make him stumble. He cussed profusely and scurried to the side, trying his best to stay out of the rain.

 It was the type of rain that Mochrie loved when indoors and absolutely despised otherwise. Freezing cold, soaking through to your bones, keeping your skin damp for hours after you’d escaped, with thunder so harsh you could feel it echo in your ribs.

 Wonderful to watch from inside. Wonderful to read about. Abysmal to be in the middle of.

 Mochrie edged up to the nearest street-side door and flung it open, slipping inside without bothering to examine its exterior. He stood in the doorway and waited for some of the excess water to drip off onto the mat beneath his feet. Lightning boomed behind him, and a few patrons turned to gawk; he knew his silhouette against the lit doorway had frightened them. He snorted under his breath, making no effort to hide his grin.

 He grabbed the hem of his cloak and shook it off a bit more, then wiggled each boot in hopes that he wouldn’t drench the floor. Relishing in the warmth of the hearth, he pressed further into the tavern, brow raised as he blinked stowaway raindrops from his lashes. He rubbed the crook of his hand down over his nose and mouth with a sniff, eventually finding his way to a seat by the bar. He tossed his wet hood back, accidentally sending back a spray of droplets. The barkeep frowned.

 “Something warm,” he said to the barkeep, “please.” He ran a hand through his auburn hair, which was, thankfully, still dry. “Like tea or something, maybe.”

 The barkeep rolled his eyes and went into the back to look for something that wasn’t booze.

 Mochrie could sense eyes on him all around the tavern. It was nothing unusual; happened all the time. At this point, it was easy to ignore. He sniffed again, his nose a little runny after the cold air outside, and picked at a hangnail, mulling over the books in his satchel.

 Usually, after a few minutes, the stares would stop, the prickling in his skin would subside. This time, he could feel the sensation linger, its strength never faltering. Mochrie cleared his throat.

 “Thank you,” he muttered to the barkeep, who’d shoved a mug of black tea Mochrie’s way. Mochrie took an uncomfortable sip. The eyes were still on him.

 He lowered the mug to the bar, then glanced over his shoulder in a way that he hoped looked like he was simply admiring the furniture. He caught someone in his periphery– a tall, well-muscled bald man with a black beard– continuing to glare his way.

 Mochrie swung his head back to face forward, plucking through the threads in his brain, struggling to figure out who exactly he’d pissed off this time– or maybe last time, or whenever else. He had no clue.