Then climbing a drainpipe he makes his way to a rooftop to take a moment. Food seemed to help make things quiet, and a sandwich was always good. Placing his sword, his rifle, the backpack and a handgun that’s strapped to his belt onto the ground, he slumps down against the wall. The sky was dull, that classical Irish grey overcast look, but it hadn’t rained yet so the rooftop was dry.

Opening his diary with one hand he eats the sandwich with the other while flicking through the pages to a now familiar entry. With the food, maybe reading would help calm his chatter filled brain - Give it something to focus on instead of just letting it ramble away. He reads an entry about expression, it’s one which he found solace in as it discussed neither her, nor any type of angry