we shall heal our wounds, collect our dead
It isn't not a delivery, but it's not from Everest. Given that he's down from the Cordillera a lot more often these days, Ronin makes a point of bringing shipments of Remi's gin to the Hanged Man whenever he gets the chance. Today it's only a couple of crates, one hefted over his shoulder and another tucked under his arm. They might as well be pillows for how easily he hauls them through the door, Flora's call echoing through to him.
"It's just me!" he calls to the Doubletake, his greeting accompanied not by one trill, but two - and the second is a lot more like a squeak, to be honest. Sugar is perched on the crate over his shoulder, preening and lounging as if she belongs there, but Spice - still looking more like a small ornament than a living, breathing dragon - is nestled in the Supernova's dark hair, tiny wings outstretched as if she's flying and Ronin is just there to help.
"It's just me!" he calls to the Doubletake, his greeting accompanied not by one trill, but two - and the second is a lot more like a squeak, to be honest. Sugar is perched on the crate over his shoulder, preening and lounging as if she belongs there, but Spice - still looking more like a small ornament than a living, breathing dragon - is nestled in the Supernova's dark hair, tiny wings outstretched as if she's flying and Ronin is just there to help.
THE SUPERNOVA
and continue fighting
