Skwisgaar knew he'd had some pretty insane nights during his time with Dethklok... But he knew this was definitely the one that took the cake. Hell, this night took the cake, the plate, and the whole damn table!
Almost being murdered, what, three times? In the mere space of eight or so hours? It was quite a taxing experience in itself. More so than dealing with rabid fans; albeit just barely. Destroying an abhorrent psychopathic fiend, who'd been completely hellbent on annihilating the five of them, just for the (probably) accidental death of his brother... Whoever the hell that was...
Must have been one of the clumsier Klokateers.
Even just the thought of that was enough to make him feel lethargic...
"Eugh... Ams t'inks hard liquors would be reallys a goods about nows... I means, wes deserves it afters all dis craps, eh?" The Swede sighed out, struggling to shoulder the alarmingly now non-existent weight of the staggering rhythm guitarist. He just prayed to the gods that he didn't accidentally drop him.
Usually, dropping the sloppy lightweight flat on his ass on the pavement somewhere would be perfectly fine for Skwisgaar, but Toki wasn't shit-faced this time, and it was technically their neglect that had left him like this. Not that they would ever really admit that...
Hell, he looked so damn frail that Skwisgaar almost swore he's shatter like glass against the skid marked bitumen.
The grumbled statement was met with hushed agreement, before the six of them once again fell into an rather awkward silence. None of them dared to speak, and in all honestly, none of them wished to. They just didn't have the energy; they couldn't, after everything they'd seen, after the horrors they had been witnesses to.
Besides, no one wanted to risk being chewed out by Abigail again.
Not even Nathan had the capability to handle her rage after Murderface had made a particularly snide comment about Toki's current worryingly enervated state.
Still, he couldn't stifle the scoffed chortle that slithered through his clenched teeth at the bassist's stunned expression... It earned him a strew of lisped curses and a flash of a stumpy middle finger, but that bothered him none. The pudgy musician was even less intimidating than a drunken Pickles, even on a good day.
Skwisgaar had to give her credit though. Besides a few bruises, a bit of a limp and a mottled splattering of dried, flaking blood, the record cleaner seemed... Well... Fine. It was almost like she hadn't been tied to a cross and dangling from the ceiling not half an hour ago.
He couldn't look at Toki, however. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't push himself to do so. He'd seen how terrible he'd look within the makeshift torture chamber; how battered and broken and beaten he was. The weak whimpers and hoarse gasps for breath were enough of a tribute to whatever agony he was in, and now in the light of a burning sunrise, Skwisgaar couldn't bare to even glance at the malnourished man dangling lifelessly at his side.
He felt guilty enough as it was.
"Don't worrys, Tokis. Wes gots you nows, and wes ams goings to gets you homes, ja?" He murmured quietly, giving the emancipated man's skeletal wrist a wary squeeze.
Still, he couldn't hide the wave of concern that white washed his features at the choked wheeze he received as acknowledgment; from a voice so scratchy and as fissured as land after years of drought. A voice near unrecognisable.
"N-need... Tos.. S-sleeps..."