[b]Dyssia![/b]

Tap tap tap. Three times, in sequence, on your scales.

You hardly have to think about it, right? Even as you orbit about, you have not squished your sheep the slightest bit. Well. Not any more than is comfortable. At the given signal your tail unfurls as if on its own, and places Dolce gently on the floor.

“I think,” he says, straightening out his lightly-coiled vest. “The first thing you could do is to help me get some tea ready. Bella would not stand for you starving yourself on her account. Ember would run and fetch you a snack herself. She might pause to grab you and drag you with her, for efficiency.”

And he evidently doesn’t [i]need[/i] the help, as he seems to have had the foresight to set in motion complex culinary workings such that cups, tea, and the makings of cheeses, meats, and cracker-y things were close to hand. But he asks if you could fetch him this or that, and how do you take your tea (or drink of choice, he would not dare presume), and would you slice these for him while he’s got his hands full? Little tasks. Simple tasks. A beachhead of small wins, from which to wage a broader campaign.

Can you tell that he’s as sick as you are stressed?

He covers his tracks admirably as he works. He pours the correct amount of water. The tea steeps for precisely the time it should. His smile is as soft as his voice. You’d never know he was remembering a Manor he had to escape because [i]he[/i] was never content. You wouldn’t think he had the time to imagine, in detail, a life where he would never find a home. Where someone chose to make him wander forever. He sees and hears you far too well to be replaying conversations with 20022. With the other chefs. With the generation that came before. With the generation he grew up with. Supposing somebody did that to an entire species. Deliberately. 

No, you won’t find clues as he works. But when the tea is ready, when you have delicious plates of food to try in all sorts of exciting sandwich combinations, Dolce does not even glance at the available seating.

Tap tap tap. 

Back into your coils. Where you can feel him rest his cheek against your scales. Feel the long, long breath out. Count the seconds, before he finds his words again. They are many.

“It is not your fault the Ceronians are this way. Nor is it your fault that they are causing problems for us. If it was not the Summerkind, then it would have been something else. At some point, at some time, they would have made a move. It.” He is quiet. Still. Worms a hand free to manage a sip of tea. “It is not their fault either.”

Silence. He has no more words adequate to the purpose. So he returns to her question.

“Bella is sharp. I’m sure that she knew they would not simply do as they were told forever. She may be angry. But I think the most of it will be directed elsewhere. Ember has already chosen her over her pack, and I have full faith she will do so as many times as necessary, no matter how much it pains her. She may be hurt. But I think she will persevere.”

“I think what we can do to help is ensure that everyone they entrusted to us is safe and well until their return, to the best of our ability. I think they would appreciate that most of all.”