No Rest for the Wicked [Visualspice] (M)

[Nightcrawler]

"Stay behind. Mr. Fletcher, STAY BACK."

"I can't, it's pulling me in, I — Lyssy, GO!"

Everything went dark. Everything felt...wrong. The world spun like he'd hit the bottom of the bottle. Like he was underwater and upside down, and the waves kept churning and rolling. Something cold and hard hit him square in the shoulder. His neck lurched. He smacked his ear against stone. And then...nothing. Quiet.

A familiar stench played at his nostrils. Something small patted along his side. He grunted. "Mmh. Lys? Bit early for that, love — " he mumbled. He heard a gasp from above. A child's voice. A child's footsteps. Some little shit was going through his pockets, then. Not Lys. And...who was Lys? He tried to focus, but her face slid from his mind. Who was...? No. Now he couldn't even remember her name. A second passed. He forgot what he'd been trying to think of at all. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he should just nurse this hangover first.

The hand went back in his pocket. Grubby fingers wiggled and grasped about, questing for treasure. Fletcher's eyes snapped open. "Oi!" he barked. The exertion of that single word sent his head screaming and pounding. Stars flashed before him. Wherever he was, it was dim, but holy fucking emperor: even that was too bright. "Fuck me," he grumbled. He lifted an arm and swiped blindly behind him. By sheer luck, he managed to smack his pint-sized assailant. "Get off of me, you little bastard. Go lift coin from someone else." He heard the footsteps recede and echo above him. An alley, then. He was in an alley. Well, it sure as shit explained the smell.

Slowly, carefully, Fletch pushed himself up off of the slick, grimey cobble. He leaned against the brick wall behind him and worked his way to his feet. He squinted down the alley and tried to focus on that searing rectangle of sunlight that marked a main street. It was no use. It was still a blur. He wondered absently if he'd been given wood alcohol. Wouldn't be the first time he'd swilled contaminated bottom shelf. "Would certainly explain the fucking headache." But...where had he been, that he'd been drinking like that? And where was he now? Come to think of it, nothing about this alley looked familiar. The brick was all wrong. The color, too. And what was more... He shivered and pulled his frock coat tighter around himself. It was cold, here. Cold like the city had never been.

Something wasn't right about this. Not right at all.

Fletch groaned. He was tired of "adventure". And right now, everything hurt too much for him to solve a bloody mystery. That was Ven's job.

Who was Ven?

"Never mind it," he told himself. Maybe Ven didn't matter, either. His first order of business was to get his head in order. He shoved a hand in his coat pocket and rifled around. His fingers brushed a few errant bits of linty tobacco at the bottom. Fletch looked down. He wiggled them again just to be sure. He came up empty. The pickpocket had nicked his fags. It was turning out to be a very bad day for him, it seemed. His heart began to pound in his ears. "Oh, you little — GET BACK HERE!" he roared. His temples split from the pain and his vision went white again, but he didn't care. Nobody took Devlin Fletcher's cigarettes. He took off running down the alley and burst into the light — and into a world where nothing made sense.

[visualspice]

The bustle of the city hung dense in the air, near suffocating like the choking smoke in a forest fire. The stench wasn't much better, streets littered with generous debris and refuse, people pocked here or there in crumbling pockets of left over cargo boxes or crumbling bricks from decaying buildings.

The slums were colorful muck, if anything, tramps stamping the outer most walls, peeking out just enough so travelers new where to look. Pick pockets were a plenty, and made up of all kinds of people; from dirt smudged faced children to the toothless and hairless old men a day women. It was just the sort of place a one eyed cat named Jack had made his home.

He was old and ornery, either thick, matted fur and a half bent, crook to hs old tail that he thumped about beside his paws as he peered down the dreary alleyway either a glow to his golden eye- and most soured expression twisting his whiskers.

He was a large cat, biggest on this side of the slums. He'd likely have the most fleas too, were it not for his allowance of a certain young woman to tend to him from time to time. She often fed him from her pocket, and he was hungry this day, waiting on his usual spot in the cornered shadow of the narrow alley, where few beggers wasted their time. 

In fact, very little traffic came down this section of the slums. It was too poor for anyone but bandits and vagabonds, and was mostly populated by alley cats. No others were around, the few that were poked their heads out curiously but kept their distance from the massive orange cat sitting at the corner. They all knew better than to mess with him. He was extra grumpy when he was hungry. And he got mad when he was extra grumpy. 

She was late. Sometimes it happened, but the orange cat simply waited, swishing his tail and glaring about, and on occassion, cleaning its untameable fur. It wasn't until someone bolted down the alleyway that the cat reared up, hissing up a storm.  Then another of those damned humans yelled and came galumphing down the way; and Jack the old one eyed cat was going to have none of that-
Riaisng up one hefty paw, claws at the ready when- suddenly the familiar voice of his human came from around the corner, the music like sound to her voice taking the large cat off guard again as it peered back ar the blonde haired woman that now stood in the alleyway, hands ro her hips as she looked down at the beast.

"Really, Jack, what's got you all puffed up? I know I was late for dinner but-" She hadn't noticed Fletch until he was nearly barreling into them, and she had little time to react as she grabbed onto the cat instinctively and attempted to pull her and the cat out of the man's way.

[Nightcrawler]

He was seething mad, now. Every footstep felt like a fish club upside the skull. Every breath yanked at a stitch in his side. It was still far too bloody bright out. The world was still so bloody wrong. "Steal my smokes," he puffed as he ran. "I'll tan your sorry hide, you little shit." He thought he might puke from all the spinning, but he pushed through it. It wasn't until he was almost on top of that damned cat that he spotted it.

It was a big thing. Ugly, too, with one eye and matted fur, all mangy and flea-bitten and scarred. It stood in the middle of that narrow alley, cool as you please, and stared Fletcher down like he'd personally issued it a challenge. Like he was trespassing on its turf. Fletch kept running. He didn't have time for this. "Move, you daft bastard," he hissed as he approached, now only a few steps away. The cat hissed back. It raised a paw to swipe at him. He sidestepped clumsily at the last second, head still pounding, eyes still squinted against the bright of day. He missed. His ankle rolled. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched to catch himself on the hard cobble. There was a blur of gold. Someone swept the cat up in their arms — someone who hadn't been there a moment before. He thought he heard them talking to it. Then Fletcher's knees hit the ground and he gritted his teeth against that fresh pain.

"Is that your fucking cat?" he snapped as he picked himself up again. He had to keep going. He had to get his smokes back. "Maybe teach it not to — "

Then he lost his words entirely. He'd expected some dirt-smeared urchin. He hadn't expected a woman. Not a pretty one, anyhow. And certainly not one alone in this shithole of a side street. She had eyes like he'd never seen. He stared, mouth agape, stubbled chin wagging ever so slightly as he tried to regain his composure. At last, it came back to him. "Erm...sorry, love. It's not been my day. You er...haven't seen a little brat run past like he'd just picked a pocket, have you? Afraid it was mine."

[visualspice]

The woman winced as the man's knees hit the cobbles. That was going to smart. But then he was puffing out curses like it was smoke from a cigarette. 

Then he paused, just gaping. 

Ugh. Men. She planted a hand to her hip, the other holding the growling orange cat. 

"If you let an old, one eyed cat pick your pocket, you might want to consider another city."

Honestly, did he think she'd sympathize with a man waltzing through the slums and getting his pockets picked? It wasn't even night time yet, nor late enough in the evening for more 'normal' people to get drunk. But with his accent.. those looks... she wrinkled her nose as her frown deepened. He was probably a damned Adelan. 

[Nightcrawler]

Her accent was strange. She sounded posh. She was clean. And she didn't look like a whore, either. What was she even doing here — wherever "here" was?

Fletch squinted, but this time it wasn't from the sun. The woman had planted her hand firmly on her hip and now scowled up at him. That stupid cat dangled over her other arm like some deranged, hairy infant. Clearly he'd done something to offend the girl, but was she really playing games with him right now? He matched her posture, rolled his eyes, and glowered back at her, brow arched skeptically. He hissed a breath out through his nostrils. "Ha, ha. You're a right comedian. Are you going to help me, or — "

He stopped. He sighed. He glanced at his palm, saw that it was covered in street grime, decided he didn't care at the moment, and rubbed at his aching temple. That little bastard was long gone, and he was in no state to catch up. He knew it. He shoved his other hand in his pocket. At least he'd smacked the thief before he lost all his coin. He'd just have to go find more smokes, and some uppity priss was certainly not worth chatting up in the meantime. "You know what? Never mind it. 'Scuse me." Fletcher pushed past her and continued, now limping, towards the street.

[visualspice]

The blonde woman was perhaps more observant than she'd like to be at the moment, and felt a pang of pity towards the stranger as he attempted to hobble away. She knew when he hit the cobblestone , it had been hard. She had been there too many times to count.

However, as the disgruntled stranger forced himself past the pair... that was apparently all the sass needed to put the temperamental Jack over the edge.

And with a mighty mreowl, Jack launched himself from his humans arms and straight into the bumbling stranger, claws ready. Missendria gasped at rhe sudden lunge, the cat heavy enough to topple her into the nearby alleyway wall, where she managed to catch herself with a curse, then turned to watch in horror as the cat really yowled and attempted to shred its claws into the man's arm.

Missendria gasped, pushing herself from the wall and rushed after the cat.
"Jack! Jack! No!" She exclaimed, equally afraid the cat would do some serious damage to the stranger while equally pissing off this strange man, which might lead him into doing something to harm the one eyed cat.

But in her attempt at trying to fetch the cat, she found herself tripping over the flailing pair, and with a gasp she lost her footing, landing clean over the stranger and raging cat, crashing ontop and creating a sandwich of chaos.

Startled that his human dare lay a hurtful finger upon him, the cat let out a hiss and yelp, before launching itself out from between the pair and took off towards the shadows, leaving a very disheveled and clawed up pair of fools on the ground.

[Nightcrawler]

One second, he'd been making his way towards the street and the too-bright light, consoling his wounded ego with fantasies of tobacco. The next, something tore straight down through felted wool, shredded his sleeve, and sank deep into his skin. Fletcher bellowed from the surprise as much as the pain of it. "ARGH. What the FUCK." He spun to find that same mangy cat latched onto him by the jaw, furiously rabbit-kicking his coat — and his arm — into ribbons. Instinctively, he tried to shake the wretched thing off of him, but he only succeeded in making his foe redouble its punishing grip. Fletch roared again and attempted to scruff the cat with his free hand. "GET YOUR ANIMAL OFF OF ME — "

"Jack! Jack! No!" The woman cried from somewhere behind him. He heard running. Her yellow hair bounced and glinted. Her arms reached forth, fingers outstretched to retrieve his assailant. He turned to face her. It was too late. She tripped. Stumbled. Bowled right into Fletch. He toppled over from the momentum and landed flat on his arse. The back of his head hit the cobble once again, and the woman fell on top of him, crushing the cat between them.

Pandemonium ensued. The great ugly thing yowled into Fletcher's bloody, raw arm before detaching and scrabbling for traction. A paw struck him in the eye. Another tore at his cheek, claws still extended for maximum damage. At last, the beast escaped its cage and made a beeline for freedom. Fletch groaned and winced at his new, stinging wounds before attempting to shove the woman away. "Aghh. Look, woman. Where I'm from, you buy a man dinner and a pint before you pull a stunt like this. Get off of me, will you?"

[visualspice]

Missendria hardly came out unscathed, the one eyed cat not leaving her without a mark of warning. It's perhaps why the damage done unto herself from the fall was over looked, cushioned mostly by the man anyway. Well this was no where what she had expected the outcome to be. Damn. She began to untangle herself from him...

Then the man spoke. She gave him a look, golden hair and mess about her face before she attempted to push herself up and chuffed a retort, "Well, where I'm  from men-"

And thats around the time her ankle gave out. She yelped in alarm and unceremoniously fell back ontop. Damn it. She must have twisted her ankle in the fall.

[Nightcrawler]

"Well, where I'm from men — "

The priss had the gall to lecture him as she picked herself up. She got about halfway off of him, then yelped and fell back down again — right onto his bleeding arm. He winced. He'd had worse: regent knew he'd been flogged more times than he could count. But fucking hell, that cat meant to go for the kill. He was glad he'd seen the last of it. As for the woman...

It seemed she'd done something when she barreled into him. She'd gone and hurt herself, and now she couldn't get up. Fuck, Fletch thought. Not my bloody day, is it. Truthfully, he didn't want to help her. He didn't want to play the bloody hero. He didn't want that expected of him — not by some snotty little harpy. He was tired. His head still wouldn't stop pounding. And now he'd gotten torn to shreds by a cat of all things.

"Look, I'm flattered, but — " Fletch grunted as he rolled her off of him and onto the ground. He glared daggers at her and scowled as the bite marks began to sting something fierce. " — why don't you go and — argh — find some other rabid animal victim to throw yourself at, ey?" Using the wall as leverage, he hoisted himself to his feet. He didn't spare the woman a second glance. She wasn't important right now. Someone's face flashed in his mind. Someone's pale, thin fingers tended to his cuts and punctures. I told you to clean it as soon as possible, someone once admonished him. Honestly, Mr. Fletcher, if all of your wounds have festered so, I cannot comprehend how you have managed to cheat death with such ease.

Then the memory faded again. He knew what he had to do. Fletcher reached beneath his coat and pulled a flask from a pocket in the lining. Then he shook his jacket off, swung it to rest on one shoulder, rolled up his tattered shirt sleeve, and pulled the cork. It smelled so tantalizing. "Good fucking whiskey, too," he muttered darkly. "Wasted." He gritted his teeth, pulled the bite apart, and poured the contents over his arm. The pain surged and stabbed right down to bone.

"Motherffff — " Fletcher turned and kicked the wall, then leaned against it, panting. He roared and kicked it again, but only succeeded in stubbing his toes. "Aaaahhhh...fffffff...nnnnot my bloody day," he hissed. He allowed himself a bit more time to seethe and groan in lieu of dulling the pain with smoke and drink. He rolled over his shoulder and glowered down at the woman again. Then he saw it. Her ankle was all wrong. She'd rolled it. She wouldn't be able to walk. And there was something familiar about her, now, that he couldn't place. She reminded him of someone. Someone with yellow hair and a strong jaw and a hellfire temper. A friend. Someone he'd...

His expression softened imperceptibly. It wouldn't do to leave a thing like her alone. Not like this. "Shit," he muttered. "You've done a number on yourself, haven't you, love?" He bent and offered his good arm. "Come on, then. Tell me where I'm taking you."

[visualspice]

Of course he'd just push her off like a sack of potatoes. She swallowed back a yelp as she landed on her ankle again, rolling off of it as tears pricked her eyes. This was not exactly how she pictured her day going.  It seemed every day was bad luck ever since...

Then she noted the package she was meant to deliver. When had that fallen from her pocket? But as she went to pick it up, Mr. Grumpylocks was offering out a hand. Oh now he wanted to help? She batted his hand away.

"I'm fine. Just call us even since my cat tore up your arm." She turned from him to collect the small bundle as discretely as she could. Last thing she needed was her 'boss' pissed at her that she lost the goods. And she didn't need others getting in her way. The delivery was time sensitive, but the drop off time was at night fall. So she had sometime to spend not losing the small sack.

[Nightcrawler]

The woman swatted him away. "I'm fine," she said. "Just call us even since my cat tore up your arm."

Fletch snorted. "Yeah? That ankle's fine, is it?" he chuckled. "Don't be daft. Here." He pulled his coat from his shoulder and donned it again. As he did, he watched her snatch something from the ground. She certainly was sneaky about it. He wondered what it was, exactly, that she didn't want him to see. Fletch waited for her to finish stowing her little secret, making careful note of where she'd put it. Then, before the priss could protest, he bent, slung her arm behind his neck, and lifted her to her feet.

"Right," he said. "Two choices, love. Either I walk you out of here like this, or I throw you over my shoulder and carry you. You really want the townsfolk to see something like that?"

[visualspice]

Missendria gasped as she was unceremoniously scooped up, her arms forcefully looping around his neck so she wouldn't get dropped.

"What are you doing?" Then at his words, she bared her teeth, seething. The suggestion to carry her like a sack of potatoes wasn't a flattering alternative but she chewed over her words as she considered her predicament.

"And just where do you intend on taking me?"
They were both strangers to one another, as if he'd have a clue to where she lived or worked. And despite having injured her ankle, what would it matter where she was as she hobbled on it? She wasn't about to throw money she didn't have on a doctor who would likely make her ankle worse.. and healers were even more expensive.  Besides, magic always made her feel... uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because she had grown up in a Connlaothian influenced area or not.. because she herself was so 'magician" the idea of magically doing whatever always unnerved her. Infact, she tried not to think on it for too long.

[Nightcrawler]

"No," Fletch replied, drawing his words out like she was slow in the head. "That's what you tell me." He stopped walking for a moment and side-eyed the woman from beneath one arched brow. She really did remind him of...she seemed so much like... Was it the hair? All he knew was that, for some inconceivable reason, he couldn't just walk away and leave her injured. "I'm not leaving you in some beer-piss alley with a bum ankle," he grumbled. He winced at his arm and shifted his shoulder to get a better lift, then kept on limping them forward until they reached the main street. He squinted. His eyes still had to adjust. "You'll be off it if you know what's good for you. Even in my line of work, it's a few days' bed rest at the least. You're daft if you think you're going to just — wh — "

His eyes had adjusted.

Before him sprawled a city the likes of which he'd never seen. If that alley had seemed odd, the scene he now took in lacked any kind of logical sense. The people were wrong. The signs, wrong, written in some incomprehensible foreign script. Everywhere, vivid color assaulted his senses. Women dressed in intricate flowing garb like they meant to draw the eye, and the men did, too. And every once in a while, he'd spot a spark or a glint or something moving the way it shouldn't be, like every denizen of this place meant to perform some trick of the eye, some street magic.

"What — "

Fletch coughed a single cough. He blinked. He gaped. "Where in the regent's holy arsecrack am I?"

[visualspice]

She wasn't going to wriggle free or try to squirm her way out of his arms, if anything, she was considering ways to deck him. Instead, she held her tongue, or rather, held back an itching fist. And his side eye was met with one of her own. Like the bristling cat they left in the alley, Missendria appeared as prickly as they come.

As they exited the slums and entered the city proper, she grimaced and squirmed a bit as people began to stare. She drew in a breath, releasing it irritably.

"You're.. " she began, raising an eyebrow at him. "not from around here, are you?"

The place was colorful as the rainbow, with an eclectic selection of people this side of the mountain. It wasn't much to gawk at for those around here but.. she'd been to a few other cities. Not many could compare to the colorfulness of Arca.

It was.. almost endearing if not for the people continuing to stare. She gave a few light, wriggling kicks, more out of impatience than anything.

"Think you stop gawking at the city like she's some spread-welcome whore? Really.." she shook her head then muttered to herself.  "You'd think he was a child."

[Nightcrawler]

"More like this place isn't from around me," Fletch muttered darkly. He continued to stare as passersby swept past them. Some of them looked a bit like him. Most of them didn't. "I'm dreaming," he decided, talking more to himself than to her. "That's what it is. You're not real. Nobody has yellow hair, right? Come off it. It's a joke. None of you are real."

The woman squirmed. "Think you can stop gawking at the city like some spread-welcome whore?" she derided him. Fletcher snorted in spite of himself. The whole thing was ludicrous, but that word was the last one he'd expected to come out of her pretty, proper face. He eyed her again, this time with a bit less skepticism. For one brief moment, he grasped how lost and alone he really was. How much he stuck out in this city like a sore thumb. How much he'd need a hand to sort this mess out.

Then he cleared his throat and shoved the thought aside. His expression hardened again. He started forward. "Think I can stop gawking, sure. Can't promise much on the other bit," he grunted. "So. For the third sodding time: where am I taking you?"

[visualspice]

People were staring. A lot of people were staring. She squirmed some more.
"Here is just fine," she said, impatiently. 

The last thing she needed was to have attention drawn to her. She was explicitly told she had to be discrete with dropping off the package, and despite having sometime before the drop off, she'd have preferred to remain another obscure figure in the crowd. 

It seemed this man wasn't bothered by the looks they garnered. Studying him a bit more, she wondered if he might not be Essryni. He had an interesting look to him and accent, to be sure. Or perhaps he was from one of the islands? It might explain the way he was calling this place unreal. 

Sighing, she gestured with one a hand out towards the city proper.
"You've truly never been here before?" 
How'd he end up so deep in the slums? She eyed him up and down again. 
"Well welcome to Arca, capital of the kingdom of Serendipity." She paused a moment to let that sink in for him. "Now.. if you'd be so kind as to put me down ... I believe we're getting enough stares from the crowd."

[Nightcrawler]

"Arca," Fletch repeated. He'd never heard of an Arca, nor a Serendipity. His stomach churned. The headache was back, and it brought vertigo with it. He winced at the light. His arms and legs felt like jelly. "Erm..."

Doubt finally got the better of him, and he faltered and stopped again. The woman was right. He'd been so caught off guard by the riotous scene that he'd forgotten to watch his back. But they were staring. He was drawing attention. And attention, in a new place, with no bearings and no friends, was dangerous.

"Right," Fletch said. He lifted her arm from his shoulders and let her put her weight on her own two feet. "Right," he said again. He swayed in place, dark eyes flitting about, clammy hands clenching and unclenching. "Well. I'm off to find smokes. Best of luck with that, er — "

He waggled a hand dismissively in the general direction of her ankle. Maybe it was better this way, he thought. Maybe having a cripple on his hands would just slow him down. "Cheers," he offered, and flashed a half-hearted grin. Then he spun on one heel, red coat fluttering in his wake, took three steps away from her, and promptly collapsed to the street.

[visualspice]

Missendria arched an eyebrow at the man when he finally set her down. He was certainly an odd one. She wasn't sure how to place her thoughts on him. It's like he wanted to be chivalrous but..

Maybe that was just the drink talking, because this man had to be drunk. Or on something. Yet.. she dealt with men and women on both and this man? Something didn't seem.. right.

She frowned when he turned from her, crossing her arms and keeping back an eye roll. She supposed she should thank him, but whatever he just helped with was.. well...
She just didn't know.

But when he suddenly collapsed she blinked, more stunned at first than alarmed and after a moment and he didn't move...

She noted the stares and grimaced. Great, they were still not in the best location on town for the damn idiot to pass out. Maybe he was drunk.

Sighing, she removed herself from the wall where she had been leaning, and knelt down beside him, frowning.

"Hey.. Red Coat, " She began, a tug on his sleeve. "This isn't exactly a good place to sleep."

She tugged again, more firmly and sighed irritably when he didn't stir. So she got down onto the ground beside him to turn to the man over, only as was going about it, a damn carriage was coming by and nearly ran the pair over, and most certainly would have if she hadn't have yanked the man along with her to throw the pair out of the way. So now she sat on the cobbles, an unconscious man over her lap and her twisted ankle twisting more.

There weren't enough swear words for her to swear at the down carriage as it past, and just when she thought that was the worst of it, the horse shit something rancid before disappearing down the way.

Missendria made a face.

"The Gods really do hate me."

Sighing, she returned her attention to Red Coat and frowned.  He still hadn't stirred.. even after all that? Damn.  Well, she wasn't about to leave him here. She supposed his situation was shifty enough. So the lamed woman struggled to stand, struggled to prop the bastard up, before hobbling their sorry asses off down another weaving way of back alleys.

It wasn't exactly an easy task. The man wasn't exactly light, and though she was no weakling, her ankle made it painful as hell to walk herself about, let alone lug him around.

She couldn't support him the whole time and eventually just ended up dragging his body over by the quiet back streets by a well. A few children had been running around playing ball and watched the two in interest. Missendria leaned against the well, hoisting up the rope to fetch the pale of water and drank greedily from the spoon attached. 

Then she proceeded to dump the rest ontop of Red.

[Nightcrawler]

One second, he stood swaying in the street. The next, he was falling down, down, down into the ground. It was warm there. It was comfortable. There were nice people down past the dirt. People he called friends. The ponce was there, and the girl with the horns, and so was the golden-haired girl with the temper. "Hey, Red Coat," she smiled. It wasn't her voice that came out of her. Behind them, stern and frightful, was the one he cared for most of all. Fletch reached for him. The pale man crouched before him, grasped him roughly by the shoulders, and stared deep into his eyes.

"It's time to wake up, Mr. Fletcher," he said. He shoved Fletch overboard.

Fletch plunged into the sea and came to his senses sputtering and thrashing. His heart beat a million miles a minute. He dragged himself into a sitting position against the wall. Water drenched his hair and streamed down his face in a dozen rivulets. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. It was the wrong sleeve. "Motherf — "

Everything hurt, but his arm hurt the most. The cat. That fucking cat. Now he remembered. He glanced about wildly, his soaked chest heaving. The priss was still there. It was just the two of them. His friends must have been a dream, and that meant that this place — the place that made no sense at all — was reality.

"Fuck," he said. He turned to the woman and eyed her blearily. She'd somehow moved them both back into another alley. Either he'd blacked out and walked here himself, or... He reached up and touched his forehead. Yeah. There was a fresh bruise there. He'd passed out on the spot. He knew it was far from the first time he'd done it. This was all too familiar — as was the bucket of wake-the-hell-up she'd tossed on him. Strangely, it was the least of his worries. "You've got some muscle on you, haven't you?" he coughed. "No good doing that on a bum ankle. You needed to be on your way so bad, you should have just left me." He shivered, drew his water-laden coat a bit tighter, and patted his pockets. It was a small blessing that he'd had his tobacco stolen, or that would be drenched now, too. "Bloody freezing here. Would kill for a fag."

[visualspice]

Missendria frowned. Cold? She placed a hand to his forehead.  Was he running with fever? Then she stepped away, anxiously moving, inspite of her ankle, as she considered just what to make of old smokey here. 

"Look, Red Coat, are you sick or drunk? Because I recommend sobering up a little more before returning to town." 

Despite the reprimand in her voice, there was also a hint of worry she couldn't snuff out.