Rage. A familiar emotion to the Folelsa practitioner, but one he rarely ever felt himself - at least with such intensity. His honor and name had been besmirched, dragged through the mud, by an Ithanian no less! And then there was that nobody wearing the purple with the stupid smirk... The Ombre's hand clenched into a fist as he remembered that ugly smug. There were others there too. A Velheimer, or half Daen as she insisted, the Grand Commissioner and... That girl. Thinking of that rabble latching onto him just fueled his rage even more. He stumbled away from the Throng towards the Golden Willow, returning for yet another drink. The Ser knight had never been a heavy drinker but now, at this low he found himself, comfort could easily be found in a cup of ale.
He saw visions of his failure everywhere. Mocking him. Taunting him. Côme turned the corner and saw the licking flames of dragon fire writhing in the corner of the tea house. Grimacing, he turned away, back towards the square where a light drizzle had begun to fall. He looked up towards the clouds, furious they would dare drench a man already drowning in incompetence. As his eyes followed the drops of water on their journey to the ground, he was met with a terrifying sight; that of his parent's grave... A single jeweled hand exposed from that muddied earth pointing... Towards the noble district.
Fear-stricken and being guided by something, he ran. He ran and stumbled, even bumping into someone. His irritation had only grown as his drunken stupor raged on and as the woman barked at him, questioning him, he returned with the same fury. Côme was about ready to fight, she looked like she could handle herself when a ghost from his past appeared behind her; that of his once lover, his scarred face yet another reminder of his failure. He said nothing... Only pointing, guiding him. Scrambling away from the woman he fled, in the direction he was bid.
Finally, he was in the plague-ridden noble district. He looked around at the various estates, his movements erratic and slumped as the alcohol kept its vicious grip on the knight. He... He wasn't there yet. His frantic eyes searched for where he was to go, needed to go. A bridge. Stumbling across it he barely noticed the many runes and markings of the Oldt Fayth as he crossed into the Old Gods district. He was pulled, summoned even by a multitude of voices. Familiar yet... Distant. They all urged Côme towards a nondescript home...
Until a sudden shove hurled the Ombre into a wall. The drunk hit his head hard against the earthen bricks of the Old Gods home, his attacker upon him like flies on honey. Their hands gripped his throat with a hatred unknown to the honorable knight. He gasped for air as his neck and head shook back and forth, whiplash quick to set in as the hands shook his body with an unrelenting rage. Drunk, battered, and confused he could barely see the assailant from behind his now mud clotted curls. All he heard before an unbearable burning sensation raced throughout his body pulling forth his energy - his very essence - were three words in a definitive feminine voice, "You deserve it."
