-- OH, SWEET JUSTICE. LOVELY payback. Debts come to kiss him and fail him. Randal knew these sorts of things well! That a stab to the back be welcomed like an old friend was a skill required of frequent gamblers and mercenaries-for-hire, triple so if you wanted to call yourself both. He does not mind consequences, because he can simply run away from them. Fall through a gap in time and space and come back in a decade, or perhaps a decade prior. It was all the same to him.
A bit hard to run away from his own chest, though.
Randal hears tell-tale of the so-called flower-vomiting disease and rolls his eyes. Something you get because you can't let go of your feelings? He has never heard of something to be less worried about. Indeed, many who have laid at his bedside have complained that he doesn't hold onto those feelings enough.
Well, sucks to suck! Look who's winning now! That's right, it's the strength of emotional distance! Of not giving a damn and minding your own business! Of taking the money and asking no questions! Of-
He cheats at cards at the tavern and coughs.
Someone pats him on the back, makes fun of him for being so terrible at smoking at his age. Randal laughs along and clears his throat thrice to get rid of the itch. It does not leave, and so he excuses himself to the toilet, forfeiting the round. Not that he was gambling anymore, but...
The annoyance at a game poorly-abandoned chases itself away as what makes itself known in the toilet is not half-digested drink, but wilted clovers.
Randal sorts thrice through his mind to see if he's ever loved someone, comes up empty, and scolds himself. Even if he had fallen head over heels for someone, those afflicted only seem to be ones who are unrequited and can't let go of the thought. Or, rather: they can't admit it.
Is that the problem? A lack of admittance of something? The thought has Randal's blood running cold and summarily triggers another plethora of clovers to spill out from his lips. In that case: yes, well, one doesn't become a regular at any bar with truth as their language.
Someone bangs at the stall door and he pulls himself away sluggishly. It's only leaves, he reasons- he can just eat them back down the way they came. Another delightful way to be closer to his horse, or whatnot.
This will not ruin his night. No- this is something he can beat down, he is certain. He's not even certain that his theories are correct, or that he even has the damn disease. Perhaps he's just eaten some grass, and forgotten?
He pulls himself back into the fray. His seat at the table has already been taken. Randal scans the bar, catches sight of someone toying with something in their hands by themself. A game, perhaps? More importantly, a distraction.
Randal pulls himself into the seat next to them. "Room for me?" he gets out in a tone he hopes is wry, but ends up being gruffer than he'd like. It is only then that he recognizes the face- or at least, thinks he does. Someone from that Valentian land, was it? Perhaps a soldier of devotion, perhaps a mercenary, his memory was too scrambled to remember. Nonetheless, he uses it as an excuse to pound the man in the back.
"Not that I'm givin' ya much of a choice!" he harumphs. "Long time no see, right? You should be welcomin' me over with a drink or summat!"
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