Lancelot Dulac is thoroughly enjoying his evening off.
His white Samoyed, Lily, is slowly learning to handle crowds and Lancelot is leading her through what's left of the lingering masses with considerable pride. She's not totally happy, he can tell that, but she isn't shying too much and she hasn't ground to a halt or tried to pull away.
It could have been far worse, and he's just glad she's come this far. Once upon a time he would hardly have been able to get her to move short of carrying her, and Lancelot is far from keen on carrying a dog her size any more than he has to -- even if a large part of her size is her thick double-coat.
It's light long into the evenings during the summer, and he's just thinking about maybe stopping for some ice cream when he spots Faolan. He's clearly... well, he looks somewhat like he's been in a fight and like he has run some distance. Lancelot can't be sure, but he suspects he might be limping.
His mind offers two options:
One, the man is well and truly drunk out of his mind and has injured himself tripping and falling.
Two, he's been in some kind of find -- might have started it, might have been a target -- which makes Lancelot wonder what the other man might look like.
Not that the second option means he can't be drunk regardless. Yet still, something about the pattern of his cuts and bruises doesn't seem to match a fist-fight.
He isn't on duty, but all the same he can't dispel the concern he feels and the curiosity. He steers Lily away from the main high street toward where Faolan is catching his breath, head tilted a little as he studies him.
"Forgive me..." he begins softly, cautiously, looping up Lily's leash in his hand a little to keep her close. "Do you need some help?"
C/D-ish
His white Samoyed, Lily, is slowly learning to handle crowds and Lancelot is leading her through what's left of the lingering masses with considerable pride. She's not totally happy, he can tell that, but she isn't shying too much and she hasn't ground to a halt or tried to pull away.
It could have been far worse, and he's just glad she's come this far. Once upon a time he would hardly have been able to get her to move short of carrying her, and Lancelot is far from keen on carrying a dog her size any more than he has to -- even if a large part of her size is her thick double-coat.
It's light long into the evenings during the summer, and he's just thinking about maybe stopping for some ice cream when he spots Faolan. He's clearly... well, he looks somewhat like he's been in a fight and like he has run some distance. Lancelot can't be sure, but he suspects he might be limping.
His mind offers two options:
One, the man is well and truly drunk out of his mind and has injured himself tripping and falling.
Two, he's been in some kind of find -- might have started it, might have been a target -- which makes Lancelot wonder what the other man might look like.
Not that the second option means he can't be drunk regardless. Yet still, something about the pattern of his cuts and bruises doesn't seem to match a fist-fight.
He isn't on duty, but all the same he can't dispel the concern he feels and the curiosity. He steers Lily away from the main high street toward where Faolan is catching his breath, head tilted a little as he studies him.
"Forgive me..." he begins softly, cautiously, looping up Lily's leash in his hand a little to keep her close. "Do you need some help?"