Not far from Imogen was a large man clad in armor and a long, fur-lined cloak clearly meant to aid in surviving a harsh winter sitting at the bar, a drink of his own in front of him that the Tavernkeeper had shoved his way without any proper request made. He wasn't going to drink that. Even well-covered as he was, he sported plenty of visible scars, and an eyepatch over one eye half hidden by the long, disheveled veil of his hair.

He was trying to be patient, but this was... inconvenient, to say the least. A man could not rule a country while being thrust about the multiverse — which, for the record, was an absolutely absurd notion. Perhaps he was dreaming or, more likely, dead and all that he had experienced after the professor held her hand out to him was nothing but some vision of the last traces of hope he had in his heart. Maybe that girl in Gronder had killed him and Rodrigue was still alive. What a boon that would be for the world.

The worst of it was how weak he felt. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was the boons of his crest always increasing his strength. But something was off, here, in this place, this afterlife or hallucination. He glanced to the woman beside him, the one that had been scouting, no doubt, and eyed the redness of her cheeks. "Are you ill?"