[He appreciates, in a distant sort of way, how straightforward Hawke is being. There's no hesitations, no perhaps we should talk of this later . . . just information, blunt and, if not easily digested, at least accepted.]

But it still happens frequently enough I ought to inure myself to it.

[He will, too. He knows that now. He'll lock the door and throw back the laced drink and ride out the affects as best he can. Perhaps he'll even start tonight, because just about anything might be better than lying on a bed in the dark, thinking about this place.

Another drink, then, and he's going to finish off the bottle at this rate. He can already feel the affects, but also, he's not going to stop.]

I suppose it is Hell. What use would it be if its tortures were not varied?

[He smiles, and oh, it's a bitter thing, edged with that same brittle energy.]

Any recommendations, or shall I simply pick my drug of choice and see where it takes me?