Looking at her from a distance, one might think someone had punched Meril in the face. Repeatedly. But get a little closer and those dark rings around and especially beneath her eyes are just tiredness and general misery. The keyboardist hadn't been sleeping well at all lately -- or doing much of anything other than mindlessly grinding in an MMO, waiting for the final strokes of the axe to fall. Like a criminal set before a clumsy executioner, she'd endured a dozen blows without any being fatal... but it was only a matter of time.

She was here to scope out Doctor and to get out of the apartment so she wasn't the only one in it, which meant she was keeping to herself at a corner table for the most part, gloomily watching the crowd and waiting for her chance. Three empty bottles of some obscure craft beer sat beside her on the table as she worked on a fourth, though surprisingly she showed absolutely no signs of the alcohol hitting. Meril had a weirdly high tolerance.

Not the best company, but there, if someone wanted to approach despite, or maybe because of, that.