Stepping over the threshold with his tattered coat in hand was walking into a new world. They'd saved his clothing for him. His hood would be with his weapons, Skandra assumed. And it was the hood he felt that he needed most of all. Stealing the light from a woman's eyes with snatching hands was hard enough. To do it while he stared her down... too cold. Even for him, too cold. In this world he was warm again. He could breath. And the visions of a moment gone were rendered nothing by the certainty that all would be well. He was certain of nothing. It was not certainty, then, but... a belief. Faith? The thought made him smile. Faint thought it was, it was there. One hand was searching his coat furiously. There it was. Crisp brown paper rolled into a tube, and removed with a flourish.
"Maybe she doesn't need the help," Skandra licked the end of his clove before he shoved it into his mouth.
He was being unfair. It was meant to make Aeotha smile, and calm Leironuoth before he traveled completely outside of reason. A match was next. His last. This dragged down his cheek, trailing heat across his skin, before he forced it roughly against the clove. Sharp herbs burned. Cleared his head, and that buzzing started to drift away, as much a memory as all the other unpleasantness. It had nearly killed him once. And now that he'd sold his soul to keep his body, with terms he barely understood himself, it relaxed him again. That was another stray thought. What had been the terms? He never asked, and did not know. Or did not remember.
"Where are my things?"
It never even occurred to him, asking if he could smoke here. The match he threw on the ground.