"Oh, so it's like whiskey," comes Kit's response, noticeably more affable the further they steer clear of personal topics like his home or his feelings on life and death, or his death(s) in particular. "Well then, sign me up for the bourbon. Or whatever it is here."

(They'd probably look like a fairly formidable pair if it weren't for their respectively cuddly animal companions--Kit's is especially fluffy and chirpy as he totes it along under his arm.)

It's good timing that they've chosen to depart the park and head towards the bar, because within a block of it, the sky overhead grows grey and dense from rainclouds, lending the air heaviness. Kit glances up at it warily. "Think we ought to hurry up before it starts to--"

Annnnd there goes the downpour. "Shit."