Vergil watched him fill the glass, the sad part was he could already fell the warmth starting to flow in him. He didn't drink much at all, and he hated the idea that Dante was better than him at anything... namely when there was so much Dante was better than him at. It was that deep rooted jealousy to a man who wasn't even there, and missing that same man so much that pushed him to keep trying to drink it.

"I hate taking so much from the inn when so many have so little. I can see quite well in the dark and I live alone. I have the stove should I need light to read." he explained why he hadn't taken some of the inn's candles.

"A fine, point, but it seems like it makes life easier, you can't care if you feel nothing." He spoke almost like trying to wax poetry, as he swirled the glass some from the rim looking down at it.