Declan, too, seems most surprised as he manages to squeeze water-- no, from the smell of it, it's whiskey-- from a flask in his pouch to a rag and wipe his nose clean.  "Oh, by the gods, girl, you've done me a great service, you have.  Never favored the 'ruggedly handsome' guise like our elven friend here, and I've always preferred to keep my face unmarred.  Still a bit tender, but I swear it's straightened to its old self, the old beak."<br/><br/>"Well," answers Fen without even bothering to look, "gods be praised indeed.  Now if you wouldn't mind, we've got real problems on our hands, you spell-farting narcissist."  The elven girl raises her brow at Malia's emotionality, but otherwise seems only concerned, not... well... outright afraid.  "Are you having any pains?  Or urges?  Any visions?"<br/><br/>The coach continues its perilous course down the broken roads of Golgotha, winding its way toward the brambles and spired ruins of the Garden District.