[ Steady enough, he thinks. He's not ready to keel over, not walking with a skull full of fuzz and static that seems primed to blow. Disconnected, yes- with an emptiness he didn't have the night before, that rivals the hollow sensation his curse leaves him with whenever his skin leaves the brush of another.
But still, there's a mental fortitude in the way he forces himself upright and straight, resisting the urge to suck in a stabilizing breath he knows he no longer needs.
Syrlya will not have to go far, as it's the kitchen he decides to stumble into- the light of the morning sun streaming through the windows is grounding enough to his discombobulated senses, despite the hangover.
His gaze flickers down to the towel and the cup, before looking up, wearily and distant. ]
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But still, there's a mental fortitude in the way he forces himself upright and straight, resisting the urge to suck in a stabilizing breath he knows he no longer needs.
Syrlya will not have to go far, as it's the kitchen he decides to stumble into- the light of the morning sun streaming through the windows is grounding enough to his discombobulated senses, despite the hangover.
His gaze flickers down to the towel and the cup, before looking up, wearily and distant. ]
...Do I still look that bloody terrible.