[Namur is still determinedly trying to get the damn thing off and failing miserably. The cape is now, somehow, wound around his neck. He's got one shoulder clear, but his arms are behind his back, one hand tugging on the other sleeve, his back arched painfully as he tries to get it to slip down over his fin, which is determinedly holding the whole thing in place. When he smells Grell and Thatch in the room he stops struggling, letting his arms whip forward so he can prop himself up on his elbows against the counter. The way he acts, he just as well have come from the fight of his life.]
no subject
Somethin's wrong with me...