Two layers of blankets, even. And a third yet in my pack, in case we get ch-chilly. Your trousers will be s-safe. [ Funny to think at how Emet-Selch now braves soggy socks when, less than a year ago, he was flicking away creaky screws simply because he found the sound a little irritating. And here, now, it is Viktor who spends aether thoughtlessly, smoothing wrinkles out of the blankets and in so doing, enacting change, turning the lower blanket to something like oiled hide, sure to keep any moisture at bay.

That done, he glances up. ] 'Tis a shame about your cellars, though. [ Always a shame, to lose that which is irreplaceable, no matter how many times one sees their world brought to ruin.

That thought does not take hold, though, for Emet-Selch is right there with new distraction. He wrinkles his nose. ] Del is no beast. She is a princess. Near as clever as Grani.

[ The bird in question perks up from where she'd been running her beak along a mossy stone bench, fluffs her feathers at the sound of her name, and goes right back to what she's doing when she realizes she is not being called. It rather calls Viktor's claims into question. ]

The satchel will be fine. Come, sit with me. [ He flops back, legs stretched out, and pats the open spot beside him. ]