[b]Dylan Stroud[/b]

Another glass of murky red liquid was placed by Dylan, his third of the night. The tickling, bittersweet euphoria of blood and alcohol toying with his mind in tandem was all too familiar to those who shared his affliction. That haze didn’t stop both his eyebrows rising. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” He waved his hands at the air and the dawning realisation, “You mean to say,” His accent seeming to shift across all regions of Europe as he spoke, and, was that a slight slur? “that you developed this system yourself?” He paused. “My, that is impressive.”

At the topic of the war arose, he nodded grimly, but there seemed to be a noticeable spark in those twinkling eyes. “You think after enough times, losing a friend would become easier. I suppose I am thankful at least that I am still human enough for that not to be true.” He reached for his cup, and found it empty – he hadn’t remembered drinking it, but tapped it on the bar all the same, hoping to rectify the problem swiftly. “I do find myself fascinated with its affects though; war seems to strip people bare, and expose something primally earnest, but  unique in them.” 

He shook his head, “But yes, too much killing indeed,” he stretched, casting an idle gaze about the room, “but perhaps one of the many things we should leave for when we are [i]alone[/i]," He winked. "It is the funniest thing, but I heard the walls have ears here.” He returned to his fourth (or what it his fifth?) drink. The deep crimson liquid reflected Dylan’s deep scowl. 

“Why is it just you working on this ‘Stasis Magic’?” There was something earnestly intrigued about his tone, the way it lifted at the ends, “If you want my untrained opinion, it seems far more useful than a simple paralysis. I'd throw as many minds as I could at the problem. Is it hard to understand?”