It felt like someone had shoved a pillow case over his head or something. There were voices, but they were all muffled. There was light, but any features surrounding him were blurred and out of focus. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat felt dry, parched, raw...yet his face felt wet.
"Rain!" he shouted, suddenly sitting bolt upright. There was no rain, however. Things started to come into focus. A table, poorly shaven men, the smell of alcohol and cigars, the surrounding noise of riff raff, a cute young lady...yeah, this was a tavern. Everything just smelled of a tavern...well, except the young lady, though she could certainly use a shower. No rain, though. No such thing.
"Shucks..." he said quietly, slumping back into the bench. He had no idea why he was surrounded, but he supposed it was better than being killed and stripped down in the wasteland. One good turn deserves another, and so Gladstone reached into his pocket, fishing for some coins. He slapped all he could on the table, enough to buy drinks for everyone. "It's on me," he said huskily, his voice cracking like the dry earth. He coughed a moment, looking around. "Grendal!" he tried to call. "Grendal where are-" He spotted the leash wrapped around his hand as he lifted it up, and followed it down to...
"Oh no..." Solemnly, he leaned down and picked his deceased dog off the floor, holding it close. "Oh Grendal. I didn't even notice you left me." He sighed, a tear, the last of his hydration, slowly dripping along his cheek. "You served me well, friend. But now, now I must put you in soup to feed the orphans."