It’s rather hard to see it, hidden away within a soft, squishy lump of wool. But a tension ebbs from Dolce, dissipating into the scaled depths. One by one he drops potential conversational openers, times when he might catch her relatively alone, brief lists of counterpoints to common objections, and a handful of phrases worn smooth by rehearsal. All gone. None of them needed. Odd, feeling so relieved to talk about such a difficult subject.

He wiggles, just a bit. That may even be too violent a word for the slow turn in place he makes, back and forth, back and forth. Cloud-soft wool brushes reassuringly against smooth scales. “I have been thinking much the same thing,” he admits. Back and forth. “If we were to make a slight adjustment to our messaging around the games, to say they are to welcome our Summerkind [i]guests[/i], I think that would go a long way to reducing tensions, even in the short term. The Ceronians, the Pix, and the Summerkind would have a clearer understanding of where they stand with each other, and that they aren’t competing for the same space. I am no expert - and we ought to consult one, to be sure - but I think that would be a weight off their minds.”

“But we do have to talk to the Summerkind about it first.”

Back and forth. And stop.

“Not right away, I don’t think. They are lost enough as it is, we cannot ask them to also learn an entire galaxy and figure out a plan for their own survival. We can at least work at the problem ourselves. Provide them with some ideas. Something to start with and work from.”