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The Divine needs an intervention IC


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A giant of a man staggers down the middle of Kendall Street in the Fens, seemingly heedless of the dangers. A bottle of whiskey hangs from his fingettips, on the verge of falling, but staying in his hand by the sheerest of chance. He smells like he took a bath in moonshine, and he's lost a shoe at some point. He trips on nothing at all, falling into a bizzare half-doubled over run that ends when he smashes into a lamp post, knocking it over. He seems unharmed, happy even. "Mise tuirse ar meiiiiiisce! Mise mor a sundog bheith teiiiiiiigh mo leaba! O sundog, mar bhfuil tusa d'imigh se?"

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