[ If there's one thing about this place to like, it's all the drinking and partying. Excessive, one might call it - were they not a Warden with every reason in the world to want to drink and forget, for a little while. And Anders had reasons even before his Joining. But all that is beside the point, because it's not just drinking and carousing he's up to, here.

He's also managed to smuggle some small time goods. One of them's sleeping in the pocket of his robes. One's tottering around on the tabletop between his hands, chasing after his wiggling fingers. There's yet another resting on the shelf of his slumped shoulders, chewing on a loose strand of his hair. Fuzzy little kittens, borrowed from the pet shop.

They're much better than the liquor for entertainment (though he's certainly had plenty of that, too). And while he may not have a mind to keep them, they certainly deserve better than to be left in that dismal pen all night, don't they? ]

[ When the world turns strange, he's not exactly surprised. This whole place has the shimmery, unreal feel of the Fade - especially walking its streets at night. And it isn't his first time getting caught in a dream. Nor a nightmare.

That strangeness should turn him back, still, but Anders presses on. At least until he finds himself in that empty white room, feeling his own, natural surge of paranoia as he approaches the tin of paint, so starkly black it almost seems not to be there at all. When he crouches down and plucks one of the brushes from it, though, it certainly seems real. More than most of what he's passed to get here, at any rate.

But what should one paint with such a flagrant invitation? Not that leery sigil, certainly (it doesn't even cross his mind). Perhaps a better suggestion is in order? ]

[ For once, Anders isn't actively trying to find trouble - it just happens to catch him first, this time.

He's more or less minding his own business when he's swept up in the aftermath of a robbery, meaningless cuts of green paper fluttering all around the haphazard gang that nearly bowls him over. He's not quite sure if he's being taken hostage or simply been volunteered for the job of accomplice, in the ensuing chaos, but one dizzying getaway car ride and a hasty (perhaps self-preservation inspired) healing later, he finds himself amidst a different kind of chaos. More familiar, at least.

The little underground clinic is not precisely what even he'd call safe or hygienic - but luckily for anyone shuffled unceremoniously into his care, magic takes care of most of that. There's a brilliant blue glow that emanates from his hands as he heals bullet and knife wounds, magics away concussions, or simply attempts to diagnose the occasional mystery ailment. Anyone who approaches injured will receive a jaunty "So, where does it hurt?" for their trouble, and those who aren't a slightly wearier, "You haven't by chance seen any lyrium lying around here, have you?" ]

( switch to prose if you prefer, i'll follow suit. and if you want to wildcard/plot/etc, feel free to hit me up by pm or @gravejuice! )