A Shaper does not accept charity. A Shaper who's still about sixty percent sure that he's dead right now should have refused the offer of shelter, too--but if there's one thing Diwaniya knows, it's rain, and the myriad ways in which it can fuck you up when it pelts down hard enough.
His clothes are waterproofed enough to withstand a dunk in a peat bog, and he's not about to take them off in front of these peasants, but neither is he about to stand out in the storm just to be contrarian. If this is a magical last-second stay of execution, he isn't stupid enough to throw it away just yet.
Although if he does persist in zonking the fuck out against the shoulder of the nearest possibly-armed stranger, he may wind up having to fight again after all. He will cross that bridge once you wake him up. (He's snoring. It will be difficult.)
Wildcard
Diwaniya likes to think he understands crystals. He's worked with thousands of them over the course of his career, of all different colors and patterns and magical properties and levels of luminescence. And all things considered, he thinks he's had weirder bits of shrapnel than this embedded in him before--until the thing crackles with green lightning, and he lets out a loud, inadvertent and embarrassingly high-pitched yelp in the middle of the crowded pub.
Fascinated and slightly horrified at the same time, he's now trying to pull the thing out of his palm. Why this may not be a good idea, he has not the faintest clue.
Diwaniya | Geneforge | Rifter
A Shaper does not accept charity. A Shaper who's still about sixty percent sure that he's dead right now should have refused the offer of shelter, too--but if there's one thing Diwaniya knows, it's rain, and the myriad ways in which it can fuck you up when it pelts down hard enough.
His clothes are waterproofed enough to withstand a dunk in a peat bog, and he's not about to take them off in front of these peasants, but neither is he about to stand out in the storm just to be contrarian. If this is a magical last-second stay of execution, he isn't stupid enough to throw it away just yet.
Although if he does persist in zonking the fuck out against the shoulder of the nearest possibly-armed stranger, he may wind up having to fight again after all. He will cross that bridge once you wake him up. (He's snoring. It will be difficult.)
Wildcard
Diwaniya likes to think he understands crystals. He's worked with thousands of them over the course of his career, of all different colors and patterns and magical properties and levels of luminescence. And all things considered, he thinks he's had weirder bits of shrapnel than this embedded in him before--until the thing crackles with green lightning, and he lets out a loud, inadvertent and embarrassingly high-pitched yelp in the middle of the crowded pub.
Fascinated and slightly horrified at the same time, he's now trying to pull the thing out of his palm. Why this may not be a good idea, he has not the faintest clue.