The little grub that speaks up can't be more than six sweeps, maybe six and a half at most, and it looks like they're all bones under the suncloak. But that's not what catches Pheres's attention; it's the fact their horns are painted all white, with maroon streaked across the tips like blood.

It's gaudy as anything, but he likes it.

They step forward and then bounce up, and - they must have psionics, because they just stay there, just at eye-level. When they lean forward and tap horns, it's a little harder than the standard lowblood greeting.

"Hi! Hinnom," they say, and then they boop their nose to his.

It startles a laugh out of him. Their eyes are big and baby gray, but there's maroon paint all over their face, and call it narcissism, but he's yet to meet a maroon he's disliked. They're such a friendly caste. "I'm Pheres," he says, pleased, and for good measure, he tilts his head to touch one of his rostal horns to theirs as well.