Dulce took little sips from each jar of flower wine, falling into a garden of flavors, it was no surprise then that he got himself drunk.
He cradled the nearly empty jug of elderflower wine, half-lying on the table, his gold-blond hair splayed out. Yet no one approached his table, not brothel ladies, nor other boisterously drunk patrons.
It hadn't even been up to an hour since the others moved to a private room, and Dulce could no longer sit upright, the room spinning behind his closed eyes. It was a cool spring night, the medley of scents made him feel like he was laying his his mother's garden.
"You shouldn't drink any more." A familiar voice broke into the haze of his disjointed memories.
Dulce slowly opened his eyes, squinting up at Caedos. The Hellhound was as composed as ever, but it was hard to miss the concern in his eyes and voice, all of the previous coldness gone.
