The laughter cuts off when the world goes dark, and something plucks your phone from your fronds. You splutter with protest, interrupted mid-laugh, and you have to flail to get your face free. The cloth isn't restricting, but it's blocking your vision and you don't like it, not at all.

When you finally manage to scramble free, you're holding an oiled suncloak in your hands. You blink at it, and then look at OA: they were the one who took your phone, but it's gone now. Into a pocket? Or their sylladex? Rude.

Something is niggling in the back of your pan as you look at them, but you can't remember what. You're sure it'll pop back up eventually, or else Sipara will call and remind you. Normally you hate the way she likes to try and hover, but right now, you're alright with it: she's your moirail, and.. you're not exactly full functioning right now, although you're loathe to admit it. Hovering is her job, isn't it?

You shrug on the cloak, lacing it up with unsteady fingers. It's a little too large, but greenbloods don't tend that much larger, in width or height, and so it's easy enough to roll up the sleeves until they're no longer flopping over your fingers. The cloak itself is nothing to write home about, just the standard cheap, drone-produced swill you could buy at a depot, but for once, you're grateful for it: the fact the hood is meant to accommodate even girthy bluebloods is the only reason you even get it up and around your horns and hair, and once it's up, it's easy to tie the horn straps to keep it in place.

"Thank you," you say, polite. "Haah, ah. Shall we go?"