Downstairs

The downstairs is noisy, and as I am done descending the stairs, I see why. Loinsteak is lying on the floor, dry heaving as a puddle of yellow vomit permeates his head. Above him stands a lean, tall man, laughing with deep, guttural guffaws. His semi-long wavy hair and bushy beard, both in an almost unnatural shiny shade of copper, swing as his laughter rocks him. He wears a red flannel shirt and a kilt in emerald green, blue, and teal colors, his sword hangs next to mine.

“Finch, what the hell happened?” I ask him.

“I tried to get him to stop but he wouldn’t listen. And look at him now!” A new wave of laughter washes over him.

“Is he okay? Shouldn't you go help him?”

“I’m alright,” he says, exhausted, when a long exhale, have retch, half belch, escapes him.

Finch is tickled pink once more, his face almost as red as his hair.