There was darkness that seemed brief as wakefulness entered his subconscious. Warm light filtered in, carried by the smell of smoke, cold, and damp. If he was dead, his spirt must be wondering through purgatory desperately finding answers as to why death found him deep in the catacombs. All of his actions leading up to this point catalogued for him to review. When he opened his eyes, his gaze met the ceiling to fall a little lower to the fallen candelabra and the charred piece of fabric next to it. If he were to reminisce, it would only be fitting to start there before the more difficult parts he supposed. It was comical really. Or his mind seemed to think so considering a chuckle rumbled through his chest to escape through a grin. His laugh lasted a couple seconds before he sat up and turned to face the-<br/><br/><br/>His body jerked at the sight of a man, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword before forgetting the action entirely. Regardless if he was convinced he was dead, he still couldn’t draw his sword on an unarmed man. With the thought, his hand went to his neck and he grimaced. It was sore. Puncture wounds with some moisture at his collar. He felt a pulse in the center of his palm. There was relief veiled by some confusion but he wasn’t going to question it. The wolves were gone at least.<br/><br/><br/>He cleared his throat, nervous habit. Better than laughing again he supposed.