But, for now, he sat in his own grief. His own despair. His own hurt.
His own bottle of whiskey.
After the drinking games held at the Kraai, Noah had asked Weaver for a bottle of the whiskey. She had denied payment from him, insisting it was for his help on her quest for Ludo. He had accepted it. He had hid it from Delphine in his room, where he sat now, only a small swallow left at the bottom of the bottle. He heard her when she woke, when she moved about the house, but he didn't pay much attention to it until she went silent. He was used to her getting up in the middle of the night, knowing her nightmares did not offer her any rest. It was only when she went quiet, but the familiar squeak of the door closing didn't follow, that he worried.
Noah stood, wobbling towards his door. He opened it without hiding his entrance. He loomed into the main space of the house, his eyes falling on the woman just as a long, thin, red slice stitched itself back together on her arm. Anger bubbled in his chest, and he closed the distance between them with the smell of the whiskey so evident on him. "Stop it? Right now?" He demanded, though his curse lifted the endings of his sentences as questions. Anger bubbled even deeper. He gripped the edge of his table for balance, his body swaying in his drunken state.
