(Untitled)

[notmyhome]

Dear Stigmata, you need a tiny drunken Orkney artist to-day, please don't argue. He's very tiny and very drunk--seriously, how is he still standing, let alone not throwing up everywhere? He is also bleeding all over the place, apparently because he decided to slit his wrists, although it is worth noting that this has done absolutely nothing, as he'

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[vitriolina]

Kit spots him the moment she breezes in the door, and makes a beeline for him, the ribbons fluttering from her kicky neo-Edwardian hat. "Look who's here, a little lost lamb."

[notmyhome]

"M'lady," he slurs, turning towards her.

[vitriolina]

She drapes herself against the bar, peering at him with clearwater eyes from under the hat's brim. "You've begun without us," she observes. "That won't do, laddie-my-sweet, can't be doing with that. Look what a mess now."

[notmyhome]

"Knowest not, my blood was singin'. Had to get it out o' me. Couldn't wait for thee or Christie."

[phocame]

Christie doesn't often venture into the Nexus, it is a new sort of oddity for him, but when he does he likes to poke around and explore places he hasn't seen before. That brings him to Stigmata and the prospect of a serve it yourself bar pleases the selkie a great deal.

At least until he notices the bloody mess of a familiar man at the counter. The scent reaches him first. Gaheris. Blood. Gaheris's blood. Interesting. Note: not alarming. He'll pour himself a drink, say hello and then possibly inquire. Priorities, he has them...they're just very fucked up.

Scotch (no rocks) in hand, the much taller, considerably less accented being sidles up to the tiny Orkney and offers, "I still say the wood chipper is your best bet."

Yes, hi and how are you?

[notmyhome]

"Got fuckin' tired o' waitin'."

[phocame]

He tsks and sips his drink, looking over the mess the other has made of himself. "Manners."

[notmyhome]

"What, y'gonna take me up on it now? Y'want a taste?" throwing his wrist unsteadily in Christie's direction.