“How you holding up there, mon ami?” Jacques asked smarmily, now sporting a beige hat he had won off of some foolish old donkey at cards on the way to this little slice of nowhere. Oh, and talking donkeys were a thing now. Handy felt just peachy knowing that even more of his reality kept getting fucked over. If he found talking cats, he swore that he’d just kill them. It was bad enough he had had to slake his thirst on some poor bastard’s unfortunate pet cat before they left Brightshowers. The scratches on his face healed, true, but it was still amongst the foulest blood he had ever tasted, and there wasn’t near enough for his weekly needs, but at least it had taken the edge off.