Well.
Fuck.
Koa leaves the meeting with Sohalia feeling dizzy, his head on fire and full of bees. All capacity for rational thought has fled him like the ebbing ocean; thoughtless and aimless he drifts along, like a feather on a breeze. He left the Refuge on autopilot, made his way back toward the Boondocks and the skyships there. But then he'd reached the Castaway exchange and realized he wasn't ready to go home. How was he supposed to go back to Stormbreak and pretend that nothing happened, all the while knowing Sohalia was here?
So instead of getting on boat he'd found himself a bottle of something herbal and bitter and clear. It burned as he drank it, and yet somehow he kept taking pulls, desperate for relief from his running thoughts. Instead he'd only grown more antsy, the tight-knit laces of his composure loosening under liquor's spell.
So he'd decided to take a walk through the Boondocks, the bottle growing steadily lighter in his hand. And that's how we find Koa here: his boxing wraps on, the half-empty container of gin on the ground beside him, expression set in stubborn frustration as he swings his fist into a tree.
Fuck.
Koa leaves the meeting with Sohalia feeling dizzy, his head on fire and full of bees. All capacity for rational thought has fled him like the ebbing ocean; thoughtless and aimless he drifts along, like a feather on a breeze. He left the Refuge on autopilot, made his way back toward the Boondocks and the skyships there. But then he'd reached the Castaway exchange and realized he wasn't ready to go home. How was he supposed to go back to Stormbreak and pretend that nothing happened, all the while knowing Sohalia was here?
So instead of getting on boat he'd found himself a bottle of something herbal and bitter and clear. It burned as he drank it, and yet somehow he kept taking pulls, desperate for relief from his running thoughts. Instead he'd only grown more antsy, the tight-knit laces of his composure loosening under liquor's spell.
So he'd decided to take a walk through the Boondocks, the bottle growing steadily lighter in his hand. And that's how we find Koa here: his boxing wraps on, the half-empty container of gin on the ground beside him, expression set in stubborn frustration as he swings his fist into a tree.
