@bloomingdeed, continued from here !
Molly's grin is instantaneous, cavalier, as he scrubs his jaw and leans back, tail swishing. He still feels like horseshit, but patchy as his memory is it's better than nothing, than emptiness. That he can verbalize how terrible he feels is a blessing in itself.
“Well! I can't remember what being dead was like,” he imparts jovially, hand dropping to his collar. His collection of necklaces is gone, lost or looted, he isn't sure, so he's left to trace his clavicle, the bumps and ridges of his scars; his pulse flutters beneath his fingers. That grin softens to a smile at the feel of it. “I think I'll pick up where I left off. Never been one for regrets. Life's too short. What choice would I have, anyway? Dying again?”
He snorts, head tilting lazily towards the firbolg, gaze bright with humor. Molly quite likes him. It's impossible not to, he's so bloody pleasant.
Molly's not whole, but he's not nothing. He'll get there; he has to trust that he will. “How about you, dear? Do you regret getting roped into adventuring with these assholes?”