"Damn it! Watch where you're going, can't you?"
There's an awkward scuffle while he retrieves his balance. It takes several moments, because his feet are entangled with yours and his movements hampered by the bulk of his coat. You lose your footing, and end up having to catch yourself on the wall of the lighthouse.
So you don't really take it in at first, but, notwithstanding his resemblance to a drowned rat, he is still himself. Grant Stern. He of the rosewood swordstick and the poetical hands, the grey gaze and the 18th century bearing.
7th place (out of 51) in the 7th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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