[And here is Crona, steps somehow far more unsteady than usual, looking a bit messy, like someone (Ragnarok) flipped over a plate onto choppy purple-pink hair. Ragnarok decided to curl back into blood vessels to sleep, quieted by far more food and alcohol than was probably healthy for weapon or meister. But Crona's in a mood to talk, even though the ground feels horribly unsteady.]
You should go eat. There's a lot of food.
[The meister's words, though carefully picked from all the other words in the world, are blurred on the edges, sounds falling against each other even as Crona's tone swings into an unstable sort of singsong. Words and tone and body all don't feel right at all, and so Crona slumps against a wall for support, sliding down it to the ground. Sitting is far easier than trying to negotiate too many awkward limbs.]
hey professor
You should go eat. There's a lot of food.
[The meister's words, though carefully picked from all the other words in the world, are blurred on the edges, sounds falling against each other even as Crona's tone swings into an unstable sort of singsong. Words and tone and body all don't feel right at all, and so Crona slumps against a wall for support, sliding down it to the ground. Sitting is far easier than trying to negotiate too many awkward limbs.]