He's a mark--an easy one, at that, and if he wasn't with Long John Silver, he'd probably be done for. That's what happens when a crew takes over an entire inn -- you start edging other people out. The innkeeps don't mind either because of fear or gold, and with the group Silver's running with, he's betting it's an even split. It pays to have a bit of a persona sometimes.

He knows very well Anne is staring at them while everyone else has moved on as they make their way up the stairs (it's always fucking stairs), where the first door on the right is a small, cramped room. It's got the essentials, but not much else--a bed, a small chest, a small basin and mirror. There's not much in the sense of personal effects either, save for a belt that hangs on a chair. His cutlass hangs from said belt, and on the nightstand is what's quite clearly a flintlock pistol.

Silver had left mostly weaponless, which made him feel naked, although he does have a small dagger tucked into his jacket discreetly.

"I suppose the grand tour is in order," he quips, and grabs a dark glass bottle before making his way to his bed and all but collapsing. Standing out of spite at the ball has wiped him out. He uncorks the bottle, taking a swig before handing it over to Benedict. Dark, rich rum, straight from Nassau.