Apparently he's incredibly not ready for this. 

He tries anyway. After two men duck their heads and ignore his attempts to greet them, he tries for one of the bigger groups - very young faces, but their surreptitious stares seemed more curious than alarmed. 

They don't speak any of the languages he knows. And by the fourth try, even the apparent leader of the group is starting to look cornered and like he would really prefer to run away.

Ma'ar isn't sure if the problem is just that he can't stop looking scary. He doesn't know what his expression looks like, right now, but he certainly feels haunted. 

Best to give up before he scares the kids badly enough that they escalate to violence. Ma'ar shakes his head and tries to look apologetic and then backs away while looking at the ground. 

No one follows him. 

He really needs a plan. Almost any plan would be better than wandering around in the dark and cold. 

At this point, though, he's too tired - and too numb with grief, and too overwhelmed by the lights and sounds and metal carriages moving too fast - to do anything more than keep putting one foot in front of another. 

The area near the bridge over the river is quieter. Almost peaceful. There's a small wooded area along the waterfront. 

He can't sleep here, but maybe he could just sit down. Only for a few minutes. Collect his thoughts, figure out who he should talk to and where in order to get a place to sleep.

There's a bench just before the sideway turns onto the bridge. Ma'ar sits down. Tries to cast a weather-barrier, but he can't seem to maintain concentration long enough to finish the more complicated spell. 

The heat-spell gutters in his hands as he pushes in a little more mage-energy from his reserves. There's not much left there, and even his basic control is faltering. Why did the stupid spell have to bring him back somewhere in winter. Without clothes. Is any of this even real. He's definitely starting to feel like he could be dreaming. 

A few cars drive past, but no one glances at the man on the bench. 

Tomorrow morning Marian is going to regret tonight-Marian's life choices so much. 

Really, she could have guessed that when midnight came and went and she hadn't yet left the house party. (In her defence, it was a really excellent party.) It's now almost two am, she's still a little tipsy, and the very very latest she can possibly get away with setting her alarm for work is 6:30 am. And that's if she skips showering, which her colleagues might possibly have some opinions about, and also assumes that by morning it'll have stopped snowing and the snowplows will have done their work enough that she can ride her winter bike. The studded tires help but she's learned the hard way that riding in an inch of unplowed snow is...a dubious proposition. 

It's nippy, but she's warmly dressed, with leggings under her jeans; Marian's never been one of THOSE girls, who wears skimpy outfits in Canadian winters. With a hat and scarf and gloves and good waterproof boots and her hands in her pockets, she's comfortable as long as she keeps moving. She's got headphones in and Pink Floyd playing and, despite her anticipations of an unpleasant tomorrow morning, she's in a good mood. 

Crossing the Rideau River, she almost fails to spot the person slumped over on the bench.

Oh for fuck's sake she's so close to being home. And she's getting sleepy. 

She could keep walking... 

...she really cannot do that, apparently. 

With an irritated sigh, she disentangles headphones and removes a glove in order to pause her playlist. And then hesitates, because whether or not checking on the stranger who might need medical attention is morally obligatory, it's agonizingly awkward. 

"...Uh. Hey. You all right?" 

Ma'ar isn't exactly asleep, but the foreign syllables slide past him. He's very far away, and he's finally stopped feeling cold. He doesn't try to answer. 

Maybe he's deaf. (She? No, despite the inexplicable horrible skirt, Marian is pretty sure the figure on the bench is male.) This isn't definitely an emergency. Probably he's just sleeping deeply and she's about to get yelled at. 

She has to check, though, no matter how mortifying it is. Gritting her teeth, she sidles closer, and taps the stranger's shoulder. "Hey!" She raises her voice louder. "Wake up!" 

The touch is startling, and Ma'ar tries to raise a shield, but for some reason this isn't working. 

He reaches out with Thoughtsensing, and gets - earnest worry, underlaid with impatience and frustration, some guilt - there are concepts behind the foreign words but he's too bleary to parse them. 

"Leave me alone," he tries to say, but on top of the language barrier, his lips are numb from the cold air and the words emerge slurred. He instinctively swaps to Mindspeech, bleary enough to forget that most people don't have the Gift and outside of Urtho's Tower those people tend to find being Mindspoken to startling and frightening. He's drained, but it doesn't take a lot of power at this range. :Leave me alone: 

"Eeek!" Marian jumps back. Okay, probably she imagined that? Maybe she's more drunk than she realized. Which, unfortunately, does NOT reduce the awkwardness of this situation at ALL. That seems unfair, she thinks, alcohol is supposed to make you less socially anxious. 

"I'm sorry to bother you but you can't sleep here. It's going down to minus twenty. Do you have anywhere to stay?" 

Ma'ar got some of that from Thoughtsensing, at least. Apology, concern, night getting colder, a question about sleeping indoors...? 

It's not like the young woman is wrong, he thinks dully. And she's trying to be kind. She's the first person he's seen here who's offered him any kindness, and it - matters, more than he realized. 

He tries to sit up. 

...This goes less well than he was expecting. He's dizzy, and his limbs feel like jelly; he has to grip the bench with both hands to stop from falling over, and his fingers aren't working very well either. 

He looks drunk. Well. More drunk than she is right now. And cold. He's conscious, which is good, but he must be very hypothermic. ...Also what is he wearing. That's a bathrobe. And bath slippers. One of them seems to have slipped off, unnoticed, and in the dim orange streetlamp-light she can't tell if the dark stuff on the sole of his foot is dirt or blood. 

- his hand slips on the icy bench and Marian reflexively dives in to support him before he slumps over. To her eternal gratitude, this doesn't earn her a punch in the face. 

Just an unsteady look, dark eyes not quite focusing, expression impossible to read. 

Ma'ar is thinking that it's good someone woke him when he still had the strength to move and use his Gifts. The river, the trees... There's a faint ley-line there, he thinks. If he can get out of sight, he can tap it for energy, make himself a little camp. In the light of day tomorrow, maybe he won't come across to the locals as quite so threatening. 

Marian can practically see him thinking. And swaying, head bobbling a little as he struggles to stay upright. She doesn't think he realizes he's doing that.

"Uh, you don't - seem in shape to walk home right now. Do you have a friend I could call for you, to come pick you up?"

Honestly at this point she's close to calling an ambulance for him, but she knows how busy the ER is at this time of year. And how badly some of the staff treat the 'intoxicated homeless men' category of patients.

Ma'ar follows the gist of that. He shakes his head. No, he has no friends here. No friends, no allies, no acquaintances. He doesn't even know where 'here' is. 

...He could ask? Ma'ar isn't an incredibly strong Mindspeaker, and he's pretty sure the young woman is un-Gifted, but she's at least trying to talk to him. Her mind is held open and receptive, much more than the earlier huddle of strangers who he tried to approach, and right now she's also physically touching him. And - he has a bleary sense that he tried Mindspeaking her before, forgetting where he was, and she didn't panic? 

He meets her eyes, or tries to; there are two of her wavering in and out. 

:What city is this?: 

Marian doesn't jump this time. Mostly because she's too absorbed in trying to find a non-horribly-awkward way to check the man's pulse. 

"Uh. Ottawa? ...You didn't know what city you were in?" That's, well, concerning. More concerning. "Do you remember how you got here?" 

He doesn't recognize that place-name at all. The young woman is clearly concerned - for his health, Ma'ar thinks, she seems to be under the impression that he's sick or maybe just intoxicated - the reality isn't any less worrying, and it's both hard to explain and something he has no desire to talk about. Or think about. 

He just shakes his head. 

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Why. 

She's tired and the four-and-a-bit remaining hours of sleep time before her alarm are ticking away and why did she get herself into this situation. She can't leave now. 

"Can I...get you a motel room for the night? There's a place not far." 

Sober Marian, tomorrow morning, will probably have some raised eyebrows about this plan. Marian's mother would definitely have Words to say about it. Right now, though, it seems less wasteful to the medical system - and probably less socially awkward - than calling an ambulance. 

She wants to...pay for a room at an inn for him? 

That is so much more kindness than Ma'ar was expecting, from anyone. His eyes are suddenly stinging, and not just because of the icy air. He nods. 

All right. Okay. She can DO this. It's on the way to her apartment, anyway, and it means she only has to have ONE awkward conversation with a motel clerk rather than SEVERAL awkward conversations with a 911 operator and paramedics, and also drunk guy seems cooperative with it. 

"Can you walk?" She stands up, offering her arm. "Uh, your shoes - here..." After a moment's hesitation, she retrieves his slipper and shoves it on his foot for him. "C'mon." 

He can walk. He's not very steady on his feet, apparently, and he finds himself leaning on her for support more than he had expected to need to, but he can move. 

Awkward!!! Awwwwwkward. Why is this her life right now. What would her mother say. How did she end up where she is, half-carrying a homeless man wearing a bathrobe and constantly threatening to trip on his stupid plaid flannel skirt. Why is he wearing slippers. Tonight is really taking the cake for 'most surreal experience of her life.' 

They make it about ten paces toward the nearest intersection, and then Marian loses her footing on an unseen patch of black ice, and they both go down hard. 

"Eeep!" That's it she is never living this down ever. "Sorry sorry sorry! Are you okay? Let me - here...?" 

Ouch. Ma'ar blinks up at a sickly orange sky, not quite sure how he ended up on his back in the slush. He manages to focus on a face. Oh. There's a hand being offered. Right. He should probably... 

Without the bench, she has to get way more up close and cozy to get the man onto his feet again. Marian grits her teeth and tries to block out the voice of shoulder!Mom loudly disapproving. She is a GROWNUP she can do this and no one can stop her. 

Unfortunately, they're right under a streetlight, this process is rather conspicuous, and even at 2:30 am on a Wednesday morning, there's some traffic on Montreal Rd. 

A car stops. 

"Miss! Do you need help?" The voice belongs to a man in his thirties, wearing a uniform that screams 'private security company', though it's too dark to read the logo or his nametag. "Is this man bothering you?"