MarinaNova Asylum

[It's perhaps early for drinking though not as early as the OOC post time would indicate but Zelgadis prefers this. Less crowds and noise at the -- whatever this place is called, it serves liquor anyway -- or so he hopes. He hasn't exactly been a social butterfly since his little rampage (or long before that, really) but today he might not mind someone to sit with, maybe. He doesn't want to talk about things, but he's not used to being left to his thoughts quite as much as he has been the last days. Quiet is a rare luxury he stops wanting when he actually gets it.]

[So here he sits at a back table, nursing his fourth (or so? Things are getting foggy) dark beer, his stone skin totally exposed because he loaned his cloak out to someone who needed it. He's waiting for someone specific but wouldn't shun some conversation. Just don't expect him to admit that.]

((OOC: After some encouragement I decided he's bar hopping a little, at the Winery and then at the Blood Shack because WHY NOT I love tormenting him. :D Feel free to assume he's at either of those places!))

Wait! Don't— [The voice is accompanied by a view of… the sky. Apparently the person on the other end has accidentally managed to turn on the video function without even wearing his headset.]

Is that all you have to say? [The headset is turned in his hands, and now the camera shows his face: Thorgal was shouting that last part up at the sky, but now he lowers his gaze towards the communicator instead. It's a handsome face by all accounts, but boy does he not look amused.] I at least deserve a trial, don't I? How civilised, to deny your prisoners that. [And when there's no answer he turns back up at the sky – is it apparent yet that he doesn't know in which direction to voice his complaints?] I won't be collared like a dog! Do you hear me? What about my family? I demand to see them!

[But as it becomes evident that the wardens aren't going to answer him, the anger slowly seems to ebb out of him somewhat. After several seconds of quiet fuming he sighs before sitting down, running a hand over his face. He mostly just looks weary as he adds, quietly:] I don't understand. Who are you who knows my sins so well?

[A quiet groan.] Odin. [It's said much in the same way anyone else would say "God give me strength".]

[If someone would rather not play the basic information game with Mr Didn't Read The Brochure, they may catch him sitting on a random bench in Sector 1. He's still not wearing his communicator, but anyone close enough might still hear him mutter something about "why give me such expensive clothes?". As far as he knows red dye is expensive, okay.]

[The voice that cuts across the network is abrupt, angry, and faintly accented – Mexican, for those with a good ear. (Though, that deduction is probably easier to come to when you spot the matching face.) It doesn't usually show, but Rictor's pissed, and he's not the only one in his team whose voice slides back into old habit when his emotions are riled.]

I want answers, and I want 'em now. What the hell is this place and who the hell is in charge? [No, he didn’t manage to catch the message droning on the communicator earlier, before anyone asks.] And whoever it was that brought me here is gonna freakin' regret it when I get my hands on you, hijo de puta.

[....]

[Oh yeah.]

And what the hell is this get-up supposed to be? I look like a freakin' Cheeto!