"He's just out cold." She complains, swatting at his cheek. He sputters blearily. "Only time I've seen him do this, he realized he'd been chatting up a Chantry sister."

"Here," Alan drops to press the icy shirt over his face. A second later, he's sitting bolt-upright, ripping it off. Little bits of skin stick to the frozen cloth, but at least he's awake — bloodshot eyes fixed in terror at the dragon overhead. He looks like he's about to repeat the performance.

"No you don't," Pitchfork covers his eyes, nudging him up. Finally, he stands... if a little wobbily. To Waver: "Can you run with us, then? She's gonna fly, right? Soon as she's out of this box?"

Alan peers curiously at the cigar, but doesn't voice his thoughts aloud.

"Y'all wanted a distraction, well, hills still got giants." Pitchfork purses her lips, thumps Fainty on the back. "We could lead her to one o'them."