Utterly Mad

Creighton lumbers after the group, the links on his ruined restraints noisily clanging against each other, his little coach gun slung across his chest in a leather holster, and his mace tucked into the heavy firefighter's belt around his waist. He grunts here and there in acknowledgement of the others speaking, not putting forth his own opinions. He could talk, but seems to prefer silence. Didn't seem like he was much for conversation, at least.