Every feather on Dolphus’ alien arm was standing on its end. The vicious efficiency with which the patrons had moved, along with the strangely improper grammar taking careful note to repeatedly mention the phrase His Name, was enough to put Dolphus into a fright - and the return to such a visibly incapable state being such a heavy contrast didn’t help either.
No matter how guilty by association or complacency with the affairs of his father, Dolphus was not a Gorov of the sinister breed. He instantly swiped the hand back towards his body, crumpling the letter as he did so.
The pile.
Clutching his cane, Dolphus swiftly walked past the barkeep and the tables and down that eerie hallway, outpacing the rest of the group with ease. Don’t look back, he thought. Don’t even think about that place, or this city, or even being alive.
His feet skidded to a stop in front of the second door on the left. Staring at it with wild eyes, he unconsciously reached under his cape to smooth the feathers back down before giving three soft knocks on the woodwork.