***CONTENT WARNING: LANGUAGE AND SLIGHT VIOLENCE***
Wallace watched as the man teetered on the edge of choice. He didn't know much about the southerners before him, other than their fighting capabilities and misdirected anger. The being responsible for their grief was gone, and they had nothing else to take their anger out on: except the instrument of their friends' demise.
As Eric wavered, Wallace looked at him seriously before speaking; "Lemme ask ye a question.. If a person were unknowingly slipped a drug, then smashed up the bar they was at: is it his fault? Or the bastard that slipped'em the shit?"
Eric and a few others flashed a shocked expression before Wallace continued; "What if a lassie were slipped a drug, then raped? Is it her fault?! Na! Ye don't blame the victim, ye bloody dobbers! Ye blame the bastard responsible!"
