[b]Dylan Stroud[/b]

For the most part, Dylan sat silently with merely the toying hint of a smile, an attentive listener, save for when she was particularly playful; that earned the smile of a satyr. At the end of her explanation, he found himself nodding shallowly, impressed at her concise and fluent explanation, despite her increasingly rosy cheeks. The news that she was not a fighter was a massive relief; he was careful to hide his face when he could not avoid raiding, but he couldn’t avoid defending himself. 

In the corner, the jukebox was skipping on a record, until somebody gave it a hearty whack. It let out gentle crooning from the 50s, and Dylan found himself swaying with nostalgia. The gentle pattering of light rain could be heard on the roof. The storm was moving in. 

Before answering her question, he tilted his head to the right and met her gaze, his lips barely curling upwards, his eyebrows rising in the middle of his brow. “There is nothing wrong with introspection, my dear, under any state of consciousness.” 

Then he laughed drily. “What am [i]I[/i] like?” He thought for a moment, “Nice enough, I suppose. Nowadays I collect and chronicle, I seek out seeds of humanity and caution in the hopes of salvaging something paradoxically beautiful from such dire days.” 

A silence settled like fine snow, and sat there, until it was chased off by ponderous tones of silk and satin, “I suppose what I’ve been looking for is meaning. I thought I found it, when I partook in every vice and sin available to me, but earthly pleasures are fleeting, and left me feeling hollow.” He finished what he determined would be his last drink here and looked at her. “No matter how sensual it is in that most carnal of moments.” 

“I also do things for the war here, of course, but…” a deep sigh, “I fear I have drunk too much to make sense, and I am a dreary topic of conversation anyway.” He stood, unfurling enough money to settle the tab, and then some. 

Turning to the woman, he beamed, a held out an arm, oddly stable for his apparent state, “Would you accompany me on this fine night, O muse of mine? Witching hour is fast approaching, and I could really use a walk to clear my head.”