Iloam peered up at me, slumped against the doorway of my apartment in Shattrath. Drunk off his ass, obviously; but not a good kind of drunk.
"Iloam? What the in fel? You okay?"
Stupid question. He looked like he belonged in a gutter somewhere: hair plastered to his forehead, disheveled, smelling like old booze and unwashed leather. There was something else there too, couldn't quite put a finger on it.