Dead Man's Drink was meant to be a joke about Falkreath's large graveyard that happens to be its claim to fame, but Joric sees it as appropriate for the current atmosphere too. The tavern is dead, with only one other patron keeping to themselves at another table. He doesn't need a lively atmosphere, but it helps keep attention off himself if others are too wrapped up in their merrymaking to take notice of him. As it is, the barmaid's eyes are on him as she pretends to wipe down a nearby table and the innkeeper is leaning on the bar, his eyes passing between Joric and the guy in the corner who is close to passing out. It's not an ideal situation, but as long as neither bother him, things will be fine.
Briefly, he moves a hand to the leather pouch attached to his belt and reaches inside. There are several small potion bottles inside and it's become an obsession of his to check that they're still there. The little vials of liquid are all that can hold back his rage these days and he can't go without. He doesn't need them now, but if the barmaid gets chatty or the drunk starts yelling at him, he may need to knock one back to stop the rage from building.
He stares down into his drink, wondering where he might find work here. The innkeeper mentioned they might need a hand down at the mill, and that seems like his best bet for now. He only needs a little gold to ensure he'll have supplies as he moves on, looking for someone wise enough in magic to rid him of this evil spell on his mind. If he starts to think on it again, it will lead him down a dark path, so he does his best to focus on his drink instead. He hasn't bothered renting a room for the night yet — though he highly doubts there'll be a rush — and keeps his pack under the table at his feet. There's mud caked on his boots and dust from the road clinging to his pants. He looks like he's traveled a ways, and that's true. He's been exploring the south west part of Skyrim for months now in hopes of a cure, but he thinks maybe it's time to move on. Everywhere he goes to ask about a clever woman, hedge witch, or any other term that might set him on the right path, he's simply directed to the College of Winterhold instead, and since it was those fools who did this to him in the first place before the Nord troops left to fight in Cyrodiil, he knows they aren't the answer. He's already been back there once to demand they reverse their spell, to no avail. Idiots; all of them. All they knew were their stupid books and theories. They didn't know what they were doing, so he needed someone worldly; not someone who stayed locked behind stone walls sneezing into dusty tomes.
The barmaid approaches and he glances up to speak before she can. "Still working on this pint. I'll let you know when I need a refill." Then he lowers his head to stop anymore conversation. There was a time he would happily flirt with any barmaid in his sight. He'd tell her stories of his time in the army, of silly antics he'd done, and if it ended up with her in his bed at the end of the night, all the better. Now he simply wants to be left alone before he accidentally lashes out at someone.
The door to the tavern opens and he hopes the newcomer distracts the barmaid for him. He'd rather be left alone to drink and forget who he is for awhile.