[h3][color=bedded][b][center] Thomas Richard Harrison [/center][/b][/color][/h3]
[center][indent][color=bedded][i]Location:[/i][/color] Barad-dûr (The Tower).
[color=bedded][i]Interacting with:[/i][/color] Satilla, and group [/indent][/center]

[color=bedded]"T-thanks..."[/color] A still weak mutter took the waterskin from Satilla's offered hand. Uncorking the stopper with a quick rinse, pouring fluids over his haggard face and washing out his mouth with a spit. Well, that was helpful, at least enough to allow Thomas to refresh himself and hold his stomach together. Whatever foul odor he had smelled it seemed to pass, although now there was another issue of his robes being soaked. Alas he'd have to take them off and part with the intricacies of his sun-themed robe for now. Lest he alert any enemies of his presence, and by extension the party's. [color=bedded] "Uh... Satilla, would you mind... Turning around a moment? I've uh... gotta wash a bit and get out of this robe..."[/color] A shy request from a slightly blushing boy. It would be either the butterflies in his stomach or perhaps that queasy feeling that made him a bit more conscious about striping down to his undergarments to redress himself in his Lunar phase robes.

Did they have time for this? Of course, there was always time for fashion-sense. If Thomas was going to die out here, he'd be sure he'd look damn good dying. Just as Keystone suggested not covered in filth and fetal-positioned. Thus as the door flung open with an impressive knock, Thomas slowly rose to his feet, taking care not to fall back down due to orthostatics and fluid shifts from the vomiting. The others could enter in first, the contents of the tower best left untouched by Thomas who had thus far invoked the ire of fortuna until he removed himself of his golden-red robes. Pulling off his soiled garnments and once again unstoppering the waterskin to allow some water to pour over and wash his tanned skin. A blue and silver robe then thrown over his shoulder and fastened together with the hidden ties beneath the overhanging layer. The hood drawn down as an almost inverse of Thomas' original robe which was cast aside over and left to stay upon the ground for a moment. It'd needed to get a wash anyways, a through one.

[color=bedded]"Okay, I think I'm better now. Thanks Satilla."[/color] A voice a bit strained, but steadying. A few steps taken forward,
avoiding the seeping vomit. He's already one step behind from the group, who had seemingly disappeared into the Tower once the door was down. Strange there was nothing awaiting them on the other side. [color=bedded]"Time to go see what the fuss is about right?"[/color]

And everything screamed 'trap' when Thomas could see far enough into the open tower. The armors, tapestries, the fact that everything looked so pristine? [color=bedded]"Must be a terrible mage for having so clean a tower.[/color] The joke here of course being that the most productive mages usually had dwellings littered with research and papers, spells half-crafted with equations, and reagents and catalysts scattered about. A few did indeed have organized areas and pristine workshops, but far and few could manage with the demands of the arcane. Unless of course you were so fantastic a sorcerer you could animate broomsticks and buckets to do all the cleaning.