[center][h1][b]Albert Prelati[/b][/h1]

Interacting with: Berserker ([@Grey]) [/center]

[center][h2]On the ground - 2:51 PM December 2nd, 2012[/h2][/center]

[hider]Albert dusted himself off, shaking dry much like a dog would as he cleared the remnants of slime from his vision. He spat a thick blob of golden mucosal goop onto the pavement, clearing his throat.

"What, you don't like being covered in my sticky goo?" he said in jest. "You 'urt me, ma chère. I zink it suits you. But fine, if you insist."

Before he could face any retaliation for his crude attempt at humor, he snapped his fingers, making a wet, sloshing sound. Slowly, the viscous fluid started sloughing off him of its own accord, merging with the puddle forming at Berserker's feet. Their clothes, their skin, even their hair slowly attained something resembling dryness, the slime crawling off them in thin rivulets like it was alive. In fact it was. And it seemed Albert had anticipated a scenario like this and taught it a few tricks.

The young Frenchman clapped his hands like a spoiled aristocrat calling for his butler, and the slime began to slink back inside the flask, leaving little indication that there had ever been anything anomalous about the two of them or the few square feet of ground where they stood, save for the smell of stomach acid and an almost unnoticeably thin film of shiny gold dew that clung to everything the slime had touched.

"Zere. Now we are boz clean and 'idden," he said. "'Owever it would probably still be in our best interests to make a break for it. Let's 'ead to ze forest. I'm not going back to ze Hyatt until I'm confident we're not being watched, and a wide-open space like zat ought to draw zeir fire if zey've still got sights trained on us. You can block ze shot, right?"
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