[Ianchus is in a corner of the room, lounging in one of the spiked chairs, keeping most of his weight on the arms to keep the dull spikes from digging too much into him. His shirt is off, thrown over the back of the chair, and he has a glass in one hand and a whip in the other. He's been fooling around with it, lightly snapping it against his shoulders, but he's even less successful at self-flagellation than he is at using it normally.

He's let himself sink down, so to speak--the last few weeks have been mostly spent lounging about his house, in a state of drunken stupor, letting the dark thoughts consume him. Self-hate is something he only knows too well, and to some degree, he can wallow in it. It's comfortable, it's another way to numb himself.

It was tonight that the town drew him here, blinking against the light. Yes, he supposed that he'd amuse himself here.

It takes him a moment to register that someone has entered the room, and he sits up, wincing as he remembers that he's not actually on a normal chair.]