(no subject)
After the messy entrance last time, Silas hasn't left the bar--and hasn't been able to, anyway, he's locked in--but he has slept, and gotten clean clothes since most of his are dirty or bloody, or both. He tried being in the bar room proper to let the dull roar of voices drown out his own thoughts, and now he's outside, because while the quiet gives his mind room to question his actions over the past forty-odd hours, he doesn't get any outside influences from the snippets of conversation he picks up.
He's unusually quiet while he walks today, not humming or singing under his breath, or even attempting to think of anything to break the odd silence. He just feels like walking forever, rubbing the mobius ring of his necklace between the fingers and thumb of his off hand while he thinks. He certainly doesn't look like he had any part of murder now that he's cleaned up and his hand is fixed, but he still feels it. It's like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach keeping him from feeling much else.
He's unusually quiet while he walks today, not humming or singing under his breath, or even attempting to think of anything to break the odd silence. He just feels like walking forever, rubbing the mobius ring of his necklace between the fingers and thumb of his off hand while he thinks. He certainly doesn't look like he had any part of murder now that he's cleaned up and his hand is fixed, but he still feels it. It's like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach keeping him from feeling much else.