Gwaine

He sees the dark shadows out of the corner of his eye once more when he's deep into his cups at the Winchester and there's no one around but pleasant locals and people who don't mind a bit of a tab (or a bit of gambling). In the past, there's always been the one, but today there's two of them and that's setting his stomach at unrest.

Gwaine can manage far more than this and has proved that over time, but the fact that they keep returning and then vanishing into the thickery of the jungle frustrates him; that they only seem to come out when he's been drinking makes him worry that this is his mind beginning to slip and then the one thing that's kept him safe and secure after all these years, well, that will fade away too.

Gwaine lifts the pint up and drains it dry, settling his account with a smile and a 'cheers, love'. He ensures that his knives are easy to access and his stance is as steady as possible as he exits the tavern. Both of the blokes are still there and he gets his first proper look at them.

It could very well be his fifth, but he never remembers. That's part of the trouble with them always turning up when he's three sheets to the wind.

Now, though, there's no mistaking the helmets on their heads or the armour they wear and from here, Gwaine can see the crest on the chestplates. He smiles, brazen and bold, and grips one of their shoulders as he stumbles for show (though it might be more than a bit of stumbling, seeing as he doesn't find anything to hold onto). "Sorry about that," he says, balling up his fist and reeling back ready to punch them.

And stops, because he remembers...

Cenred's Immortal Army. Unkillable, unstoppable, and out for their blood.

He remembers being trapped in that dingy hallway and thinking that it was the very end for him and how, for the first time in his life, he had actually been afraid that a battle would steal life from him the very same as it had his father -- all in the pursuit of serving a noble. Gwaine had been terrified, but had only fought all the harder to stay alive for his father's sake and for his mother's memory and to preserve his own honour and dignity.

Now, he's faced with two immortal slaves and while his pallor goes a bit whiter, it's all Gwaine shows. He gets his hands on the hilt of his sword and grips tightly, staggering back and away before he plunges forward with three steady steps to push the sword into the heart of the soldier nearest him, ready to spin and do the same to the other.

But when he steps back, the immortal soldier stands there and Gwaine's sword has done nothing.

"We gave our blood to the cup," it hisses, that former-man. "You cannot kill us."

"No, but I can bloody well try," Gwaine replies, shifting his stance so that he slices the head off the soldier. When Gwaine blinks, though, they disappear into thin air and not a single limb or body part is left to prove Gwaine's fears to be true. As always, they were here and now they're gone and in the morning, he won't be sure whether all of this had been fuelled by some sort of alcohol.

Breathing out shakily, Gwaine sheaths his sword. Rather than heading back to the Boarding House just yet, he goes back to the Winchester. "A water, I think," he orders. "I need to clear my head."

There are few women that Gwaine could ever forget, but that doesn't mean he feels what he does with all of them. Maybe it's just that Miranda reminds him of his own time, but he'd liked her desperately during those strange dates. He'd liked her enough that he's gone around to whatever flower patches he can find to cobble together a small and humble bouquet that he's intending to present out to her the moment he finds a suitable place to take her for a drink.

He idles by the steps of the Compound in the hopes of finding her, tweaking the petals of the flowers as times goes by and throwing away any-a-one that look like they're not going to be presentable. He smiles cheerfully at every passing person, waiting patiently for her to arrive. He's even gone overboard and bathed for the occasion. It's practically a miracle in and of itself.

There are times when he drinks to have fun, there are times when he drinks because he really enjoys the taste of it, and there are times when he drinks simply because he's bored and it actually starts to get a bit fun if you start catapulting your way around all the pubs on the island. Sometimes it's even necessary when they stop serving you liquor. Today's a latter day and he's just settling in at the Hub, shaking back his hair as he lets out a pleased sound at the mead before him.

The sun's still out in the sky, day as clear as ever, but he's got a pint and he's never met one of those he didn't like, even if they have brought him a good bit of trouble.

Speaking of trouble...

While the pint may not have brought him that, he does cast a gaze over his shoulder when he glimpses familiarity out of the corner of his eye. He smirks and beckons Katniss closer, patting the stool beside him. "Can I interest you in a drink?"