Not that the squirrel in Vampire's teeth is his own catch; he'd never be quite so proficient as to snap up one of the abominable little tree-dwellers. The sentiment is there, though, and it is more than a piece of prey—it is an offering. Their memory rarely fails them, and it does not now; they remember her, sodden and kit-swollen, leaning on a dark cat and driving terse questions into Sablestar's tuxedo pelt. The same questions that had been pinging around Vampire's head—still are.
" Evening. "
Their penchant for time-based greetings is one of their few allowances to politeness. Vampire sets down the squirrel's furry body and takes a seat a respectful distance away, voice low, wary of drowsy kittens. As is her custom, she gets right to the point. " I thought you asked some useful questions when we first stumbled upon this place. About Sablestar, about what exactly it is we're doing here. "
// @ember
