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Coinneach Mac Eòghainn - or Kenneth McEwan, to those who had difficulties wrapping their tongues around the Gaelic - drank, tapped his foot, and thought. He'd already finished two glasses of the scotch he'd brought with him, and he knew he'd need to pace himself if he wanted it to last however long they were going to be in this godsforsaken place, but-

Kenneth grimaced, catching his own thoughts. [i]God[/i]forsaken. Not [i]gods[/i]forsaken. [i]God[/i]. Singular.

Deep in his pickled mind, drowned under the alcohol, a memory stirred. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," Kenneth muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink. At the sound of Katya's order to the bartender, he latched on. He needed something [b]real[/b] to focus on. Something that wasn't-

[color=00746b]wasn't as yellow as the sun at midday, carved into dark stone that wouldn't stay still-[/color]

[b][i]No.[/i][/b]

"Lass, if ye need a drink, I've got plenty. No need to waste yer coin," he offered, showing her one of the bottles he kept in the inner pockets of his heavy wool coat.

Against his will, his eyes drifted from the Russian woman next to him at the bar to that damned man in the corner. The man dressed all in yellow, singing to anybody that was listening and staring out into nothing. Mercifully, his lyrics had fallen into whispers, but his lips moved around the hushed words. Kenneth's memory stirred, threatening to break the surface, and he looked away. "Damn it all and blast it to hell," he muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink and pouring a new one before the last swallow had reached his stomach. "Something's wrong in this place. [i]Everything's[/i] wrong in this place. What's the deal with this doctor fellow we're looking for, anyhow?"