Normally, the Marshal was an attentive man, head kept on a swivel, drink or not. But there was no drink. No drink and no job and no security to give him ground to stand on. The stresses of Mathis were starting to show on him, looking thinner than a healthy, if lean, man should be, and his face was pale and haunted in the pale moonlight as he jump started with a back of the throat sound.

Fedyor was taken in with an open expression of fear that slowly crept down into wary, wild-eyed suspicion that likely looked worse for the healed scars across the left side of his face. The ring on his right hand was worried back and forth as he prepared himself for Fedyor to be some kind of hallucination or another one of Mathis's tricks.

"There's no safe space here at night, we're all doomed-" he started, a little too manic and unhinged for even his unhinged liking and he tried to reign that in. "I don't know your face, who are you?"