“Lucky.” The response of an openly perturbed man. 

His frustration isn’t aimed towards Anora. Those sunken eyes hold within them many years of prolonged exhaustion, worn to near-comfort atop an exasperated expression. Should one guess he was always upset over one thing or another, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

    A thin hand rose from alabaster sheets to stroke callous temples. Our man's arm, which was visibly shattered not hours ago, appears to be without splint or scar of any kind. In fact, his entire body looks of good health. His hips and shoulders twist in allowing him to clumsily exit the bed from the left side. Both legs tremble for the first few moments of upright posture, that attenuated body having held only slight preparation for average physical activity. 

“You, girl, will be calling me Dorsby.” Though Anora had uttered her name, the one they call Dorsby shows neglect in putting it to memory. 

    Dorsby stumbles forward, his eyes having left the woman before him to pace aggressively across surrounding space as if in search of something valuable. Perhaps he wasn’t specifically angered by present circumstance, he’d look to live in a constant state of naturally demanding fatigue. 

    Once having entered the open space just beyond the foot of his bed, Dorsby stops abruptly. One hand moves to massage the lower area of his back whilst his upper body stretches backwards in one jagged motion full of sighs and pained groans. *Pop-pop-POP!* An out-of-place spinal column is realigned with such intonations as to make someone several yards away flinch in surprise. 

“We’ve got a few things to speak about.” He’d remark casually whilst smacking his lips between deliberate blinks. Anora could guess Dorsby just woke from an uncomfortable nap with a severe headache had she not seen him near-death moments before. 

     Dorsby’s left hand extends into open air by practiced movement, snapping lithe fingers together Prior to elaborating on his statement. *Snap!* A little, rectangular box materializes from apparent nothingness within said palm. *Snap!* With another click of pallid fingers a metallic rod emerges from oblivion inside his unused right hand. From a small, dark porthole of a box that's colored green and plastered in vibrant designs is drawn one hand-rolled cigarette. Dorsby then taps aforementioned metallic rod against his wrist just after placing the ‘cigarette’ between his lips. A small flame alights at the tip of the metal rod, and, in one smooth motion he lights the cigarette, snaps his fingers, and inhales a haze of grey as all aforementioned items aside from the now lit rod vanish from sight. 

“Look-..” Dorsby pauses, withdrawing his cancer stick to exhale a first cloud of grey. His free hand rises to rub the bridge between his eyes in smooth circular motions for several brief moments, that smooth face lined by the deep ridges of a grimace. “..-I’ll start by asking, do you know anyone by the name of Pahn, Greed, or Zahllster?” He then places his smoldering cigarette to rest against chapped lips whilst either arm laces into one another. His posture isn’t aggressive, though one shouldn’t say it doesn’t look impatient with those tone arms crossed over an apron-coated chest. 

    The smoke emanating from Dorsby’s mouth doesn’t act or smell as regular smoke does. It’s moved by an unseen and unfelt breeze, twisting in perfectly circular spirals. Several tendrils split and swirl to create whats looks as a multitude of impossibly perfect whirlpools above our disheveled man’s head. The edge of his cigarette doesn’t retain it’s ash to be dumped aside as other such products might, instead, the grey flakes detach and float into the ocean-like haze above. Smells likened to oak and fresh handfuls of dirt fill this room as not an employee nor fire-alarm is set off by aforementioned unearthly cloud. Whatever he has is far from earthly tobacco products, though, it doesn’t look to immediately affecting him in any way.

    [url=https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d7/da/e0/d7dae065a64da7177a4c2879315706d0.jpg]Darsby[/url] has a pinkish scar just above his right eye, forming an X which stretches nearly into his cheek. His hair, which once held human color, looks to be slowly changing into shaded hues of pink right in front of Anora’s eyes without any external influence.