Hitting that magical shield is more painful than striking the bones in Jim's face. Zandros gasps as his hand collides with the magic and immediately doubles over with his fist in his other hand, sucking air in through his teeth as he fights away the pain. And under all of it is Isidor's voice. Not just that, but her incredible judgement.

But rather than rise up he remains on his knees, hands against his chest, face twisted in a grimace. It's more than the physical pain. It's the shame of it all.

From a crack in the crowd Harrowheart appears, elbowing past people and wrapping his hands to his wrists as he shouts, "Zandros, what the fresh Hell are you doin'?"

He stomps forward to where the two men are on the ground. He hardly gets a half a second to process the bloody sight before he realizes he's looking Jim in the face for the first time in months. His angry scowl cracks, twists up into guilt and confusion... And then with a sigh he extends an arm to the captain. "Come on, man," he softly mutters, "Let's get you on up. Flat in the dirt ain't a good look for a man like you."

Zandros, meanwhile, lifts his head to Isidor. A broken nose, bruising eye, and the blood dripping from the tips of his hair don't well match the proper appearance he joined the party with today. "What am I doing?" he asks her -- and himself -- aloud.

He hangs his head, lets his hair and blood flow downward.

Zandros knows the answer to his own question. "Behaving like a beast."

Harrowheart, standing near, gives both Jim and Isidor a wide-eyed look of curiosity and incredulity. What the Hell is going on here?