"Oh." His laugh is weak, raw-- a stupid oversight, he realizes, but everything is a little harder right now.
"Right. Like dogs just fine, of course." He's trying, keeping this conversational when all he wants to do is lie down, go to sleep, ignore the world for a while.
He could tell another bad joke, ask after stories: Camaraderie, in the rough manner of the Order; of the docks. No point. The man looks a zombie, and they've exchanged pleasantries enough to call the matter settled. Strand lives here now. Barrow isn't dead.
All that's needful.
"I'm to see a man about a horse," He'll do no such thing. Risen, Strand shrugs up his coat for the door. "But I'll leave the sugar."
His head tilts toward the bed, eyes lifting in an exaggerated point: There's a pouch of tobacco, weighing down some broadsheets. And with that, he's gone.
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"Right. Like dogs just fine, of course." He's trying, keeping this conversational when all he wants to do is lie down, go to sleep, ignore the world for a while.
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All that's needful.
"I'm to see a man about a horse," He'll do no such thing. Risen, Strand shrugs up his coat for the door. "But I'll leave the sugar."
His head tilts toward the bed, eyes lifting in an exaggerated point: There's a pouch of tobacco, weighing down some broadsheets. And with that, he's gone.