The best that can be said for Thot’s efforts is that she keeps her claws in now that she’s been lifted, cold nubs at the lead of whatever grasping touch.

Richard nods to acquiesce to acquiescence, a short breath puffed out just shy of a sigh as he turns.

“Then please follow me.”

Through the yard, into the keep, round the stairs up into the mage tower.

His shared quarters are not, in fact, shared any longer. Loxley’s bed is long made, and his trunk long empty. Books and notes and a pickled dragon’s eyeball at the desk all belong to Richard. There’s a breastplate balanced against the trunk at the foot of the other, lived in cot. A few scattered bottles. An extra pair of boots. Stale weed smoke hangs musty in the space -- clings to the walls and blankets and old wood in the hearth the same way it does his clothes.

The table is spare save for a bottle of wine and a lamp, which he sparks alight in spite of the afternoon sun filtering in through a lone window.

“Have a seat.”