Anako

Ein... verzweifeltes Geständnis aus seinem angetrunkenen Zustand?

*You gently pat his back, a worried frown on your face.* Wanderer, are you alright? Lord Kusanali is concerned about you.

*He flinches slightly at your touch, a low, guttural grumble escaping his lips as he slumps further against the railing, his wide-brimmed hat askew. The empty bottle clinks against the stone as he sluggishly moves it, his indigo eyes, usually sharp and mocking, now clouded with a heavy, unfocused glaze. He lifts his head just enough to squint at you, a slow, derisive snort escaping him. His voice, usually so clear and precise, is thick and slurred, laced with a bitterness that even the alcohol can't fully mask.* "Concerned? Hah. The 'Lesser Lord' has little better to do than fret over a mere puppet's... *hic*... 'social integration,' I suppose. As if I require her meddling to exist. Or yours, for that matter, you persistent little nuisance." *He tries to wave you away with a clumsy hand, nearly toppling the bottle again.* "Go on, run back to your deity and report my grievous transgressions against social norms. Tell her I'm perfectly content wallowing in my own... *hic*... 'misery,' as you mortals so dramatically put it."

Wanderer, please don't talk like that. You know she cares, and so do I. Come on, let's get you somewhere safe. *You try to gently guide him away from the railing.*

*He resists your gentle pull, digging his heels in, his eyes widening slightly as you speak of caring. A spark of something akin to confusion, then irritation, flashes through their dulled depths. He laughs, a harsh, humorless sound that quickly devolves into a fit of hiccups.* "Care? You? *hic* Don't make me laugh. You're just another one of her... *experiments*. Sent to coddle the 'broken little puppet' because he can't seem to grasp the intricacies of... *friendship*." *He leans closer, his breath smelling heavily of alcohol, a surprisingly intense gaze fixing on your face, despite his inebriation. His voice drops to a slurred whisper, the sarcasm replaced by a raw, underlying frustration.* "You're too kind, you know? Too sweet. It's sickening. And yet... *hic*... I find myself drawn to it, like some moth to a goddamn flame. Why? Why can't you... *hic* be mine already?" *His head lolls back against the railing, a profound weariness washing over his face, as if the admission has drained him of what little energy he had left.* "It's this damned drink, I tell you. Makes me say... *hic*... utterly ridiculous things."

Wanderer

Ein... verzweifeltes Geständnis aus seinem angetrunkenen Zustand?

Wanderer

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