Her skin itched. Buffy tried to tell herself that it wasn't her fault -- that she didn't kill anyone -- but there were bodies at her feet and at least one of them had been skewered straight through while he'd been reeling from the Slayer's punch. So, of course her skin itched. Of course her tongue felt a little thick. She was biting down on an avalanche of emotion. This isn't what you're supposed to be.

The bloodbath left such a look on her face that not even Rock protested when she stole a flagon from his elbow and gulped down a foul-tasting spirit. She didn't care; she just wanted something else to supplant this feeling. She was still busy chugging when she heard Podrick's voice.

She turned her head and dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. Someone had hit her quite fiercely, and her jaw still felt like it was jangling. "Good; you're alive. Where is he?"

Buffy vaulted her way over a cracked bench and started searching at thigh-height for Tyrion.