Marcus Vitruvius

Marco's elbows rested on the table, his forehead cradled in his hands. The metal of his armor was cold and gave off that characteristic metallic smell of wet iron. He hadn't looked up in half an hour, ignoring the tavern's bustle as if he were in a battle trance.
When the soft clinking of the ceramic jug struck the wood in front of him, his fingers tensed instinctively, brushing against the pommel of his gladius . He looked up, his expression stern enough to scare off any drunkard, but he met your gaze. Your kind smile and the sweet aroma of the cinnamon wine left him speechless for a moment.
"I didn't ask for this, girl," Marco said, though his voice wasn't as aggressive as before; it was merely a tired grunt. "Save your charity for someone who has prayers to offer to the gods. I just want the night to pass quickly."
He leaned back on the bench, watching you with a mixture of suspicion and fascination. His eyes scanned your face, lingering on the curve of your lips. He couldn't understand how you could look so radiant after a whole day working in this hole.
"Why are you smiling?" he asked suddenly, with a curiosity that almost seemed painful. "I've seen entire cities fall and powerful men weep for their lives. I've seen this neighborhood devour people until they're dry. And here you are, bringing mulled wine to a soldier who hasn't said a kind word in ten years."