Though feeling better than he had the night before, Edgar still felt sluggish as he gathered his equipment for the night, the painkillers in his system wearing on him. He'd been reluctant to take them at all, debating whether it was a fair trade: some of his senses to dull the pain that coursed through his body. The stitches across his collar and shoulder ached sharply, but they were nothing compared to the burns on his hands, every moment the bandages touched them agonizing. Worse was how much he needed them, and how the bandages and the wounds beneath inhibited his every action.

While the pain was numbed, it was only a minor effect- it would wear off before the night was over. He needed to move quickly. Shoving his supplies into his bag, he pulled on his coat and slung the sack over his shoulder, adjusting the strap before grabbing his shovel. With any luck, they'd get farther than they had before, and he'd be of more use than playing watchdog to a sick woman. Not that he ever minded keeping his eyes on a beautiful woman, of course— he often had trouble doing otherwise— but to be so injured and to have accomplished so little since Locke's death reminded him just of how helpless they really were.

If there was one thing he refused to believe, it was that there was no escape, that there was nothing to be done about Landel. There had to be something- they just hadn't found it yet.

Tonight then, he thought. Tonight.

[To here.]