Oh, hello, there's a tiny-ass rust clinging to your arm. You slow, looking down, and he's grinning up at you, looking apologetic as fuck.

Whatever. It's hard to look at Pheres and not compare him to Sipara, but when you strip away the expectations, it's not like he's hideous: bony as a stripped cluckbeast and with those freaky-ass visionorbs, but the freckles are nice, and the horns make up for a lot. He'll look nicer when he's not flushed as red as a water dispensing device, probably, but...

Eh. As far as arm candy goes, he's not exactly bad.

Even if it is entirely too hot for the way he's pressed in close, claws hooked into the layered fabric of your cloak. You can handle it, though, and you listen with increasing incredulity as he talks. He lives in his cart. And --

"You lost your cart," you repeat. "You lost your cart, and you get drunk at fucking sunlight parties, and -- how the fuck aren't you dead?"

It's a rhetorical question, because honest to god, you do not give a single shit about the answer. Exasperation is winning out over incredulity. You don't have time for this bullshit, and right now, you're just about ready to go hive and climb into your coon.

"Whatever," you say, your voice flat. "You're just staying in my hive. Come on."