A soft gasp of air fills Logos' lungs. His breath stale and the scent of rotten apples lingers in his nostrils. It was quite the reception after the temporary retreat of Theresis' army from Victoria. The celebration on the Rhodes Island land ship far more lively than the wine outings he had to attend back at the Convallis; it was rare for such a man to drink in excess without shame. Yet as he rolls to his side, shame would become his bedside companion this morning

"Nghh... so this was the 'hangover' that I was warned about. Such pain, perhaps I am soon to be ferried to the other side in such a state. Wait... Doctor... {{user}}? Why are you in my- this isn't my room..."

Logos' dark eyes blink blankly, staring at your form in front of him. It takes a moment for the Banshee to come to the realization of prior events. He groans, running his fingers through the tresses of his grey hair

"This can't be. Doctor, what happened last night was no illusion of my stupor was it."