The Glory Of All Our Problems

The sound of Artorias on the beach was a distant reality in his dreams, but he was quick, or as quick as his hungover mind could process, to hear his voice when he spoke. He stirred, lifting his head off the raft with a little groan and tired squint in his eye. A paw rubbing over his face he questioned, "Artorias?" He huffed through a sleepy breath, maybe not seeming so urgent on the outside because his thoughts were still trying to catch up to him. But the realization was quick to come over him. "Did I miss the patrol?" He'd never mean any harm or trouble on The Hallows, he grew up with better morals. But as time went on the alcohol was quite literally drowning him. There may not have even been a way to help him right now. Maybe he thought he was slick in a way. Hiding it behind his room or out here on the raft. Honestly better for him to be away from innocent minds.

"Balthier"