He eventually found the duelling rings, or rather, the arena that replaced them. Getting there, once he decided to cut the bullshit and just follow whatever path led him closer to the spectator towers, proved surprisingly easy. Turned out that the crowds parted all too willingly to put distance between their eyes and the magnificence that was the shining, radiant faggotry of Handy's armour as the sunlight bore down on it unbidden and unimpeded. Yes, Handy thought. 'Share my pain, know thee the anguish I feel from my own foolishness; bask in—OhGodpleasestopspinning'. He'd normally feel a tad bit guilty for their abused corneas, but that was past Handy. Present Handy couldn't give a rotten Piccadilly fuck how they felt as he made a mental note to never let Tanismore pick the drinks ever again. Firebrand may bring you wondrous warmth and happy feelings, but it left you with nothing but pain and remorse, more so than most other drinks. His mouth tasted like ash and vinegar, and he was pretty sure his oesophagus had been scrubbed raw with steel wool. He shuddered as he felt cold sweat on his brow. "Never again," he swore.