Whitewater Gorge Floating

It'd been a couple of days since he'd joined the ranks of the Saints-- time had blurred itself into a thick, opaque syrup, and he had no desire to clear his mind. They weren't a talkative bunch. Donovan had mired himself into conversation with a flirtatious woman who went by the name of Nemisis. She was a sort of a femme fatale type he thought only existed in movies.

He drifts off into thought, dwelling on old memories like an obsessive-compulsive over a scab, over a certain placement and arrangement of their keys in a bowl. He's vaguely aware of Finley and Derg just ahead of him, but he hears a stumble, the thump of someone hitting the floor. 

"Are you alright," he calls out, brows furrowed. If a paw was twisted or a nail was torn, the walk to their new home would be longer than it had to be. He squints, looks ahead to Donovan. Exodus: nothing more than grit in their mouths and the sun beating down above them. He wonders what they had done to earn the place of total pariahs.