[For Alrgren's part, he doesn't really stir and is certainly in no position to put up any sort of a struggle as Louis hauls him bodily over his shoulder, only managing a miserable, incoherent groan as it presses uncomfortably into his stomach. Something does fall from his numbed grip though as he's brought inside: A pewter hip flask, empty by the hollow clatter it makes as it hits the floor, rank with the smell of whiskey.]
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[Not just a casual drunk then...]