There's a face that Lazar can make. It's even worked before - alright, sometimes, occasionally; less often than he'd like and almost exclusively with women of a certain age.
When you're being mean to him, this is who you're being mean to -
A thirty-five year old man who groans out of Barrow's bed like he's twelve, and toward the hall. Someone probably left their blankets behind when they vanished into a Rift. Or just didn't lock their door.
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But he's making it.
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"Up," he grunts, jerking his thumb back toward the other bed.
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A thirty-five year old man who groans out of Barrow's bed like he's twelve, and toward the hall. Someone probably left their blankets behind when they vanished into a Rift. Or just didn't lock their door.
He'll be back, unfortunately. Eventually.