Drake/Chloe/Quen/Cian/Open
Fifty-one. Where was the last card?
He saw something glint under a crab corpse and picked it up from the muck. The rain was still falling so intensely that it was instantly clean. He tucked it away. From the corner of his eye, he could see a small, unmarked vehicle departing the warehouse door. Apparently, his... guests had taken advantage of the lull, cowards as they were, to leave.
It was about time to join them.
He grunted when he bent over to pick up the girl. She didn't weigh much, but he was tired, and his leg ached like it was still on fire. His hip had gotten wrenched somewhere, too. Not his best night.
"That's what I was trying to tell you before, sugar," he said, his voice strained as he adjusted his grip on the girl's body. Now they listened. "I can't carry them both," he added, giving the fighter a sideways look. He was likely taller than him, definitely more muscled. "I hope you can walk," he said flatly to the fighter. "There's a clinic not far, if you can ignore the preaching."
Always useful to know the location of the nearest white mages. Sometimes, games turned violent. "Weirdest fucking night so far this year," he muttered, starting to walk, assuming the others were following.