[center][color=silver][h2]Jacob Wheeler[/h2][/color][/center]

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	Upon hearing their confusion, Jacob was quick to provide an explanation that followed for him. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, peering around at them all with his single grey eye. He was acutely aware of how some people stared, or deliberately strived to avoid eye contact with him. Their discomfort oft translated into Jacob’s own insecurity about the scar, and even over the months he’d worn an eyepatch he still found no comfort in their questioning looks or averted gaze. Making a conscious effort to resist itching the stitched socket, he instead kept his hands firmly clasped around his sword hilt and belt, something that nearly gave him a doubletake. 

	Sword? He had two, and a small crossbow with a quiver of bolts to accompany it. Somehow, the sword hilt felt familiar in his hand, the sweat stained wrappings feeling as if they were made specifically for him, both comfortable and comforting. Jacob pressed on, ignoring the worm of doubt curling in his stomach. 

	“We were all out drinking last night, we must’ve met at some point and got black out wasted. Probably wandered out here early this morning and passed out. We couldn’t have gotten far from civilization, surely.” The explanation made sense to Jacob, it fit well into own activities, though he didn’t feel hung over like he should’ve been. Actually, he felt pretty good all things considered.  

	“My guess is we’re somewhere along the shore of lake Borgne, or maybe even the Gulf if we got that far. If someone has a phone we could check the maps?” He cast about looking for any one of their strangely dressed troupe to volunteer their service.