Pheres has curled up into a ball like a grub ready to die. By the time Castor gets to him, his breathing has slowed, but he's not dead: just asleep, on the concrete floor splattered with his fluids.

Ugh, GROSS.

You try not to gag as Castor bends down next to him and picks him up, careful as he sometimes carries you. You can feel the rasp and slide of Pheres's weight against your telekinesis as Castor returns, but thankfully, not too well: it's Castor controlling it with the ease of sweeps of practice, and the sensation is like touching bone through flesh.

"You'll have to play look-out today," Castor warns you. "But we won't go deep, just to the pipe."

You bob your head in a nod, but you can't help the dubious look you shoot towards Pheres's horns. He might be able to fit, even with his dumbo shoulders, but his rack is kinda huge.

Oh, well. If they won't fit, Castor can always snap one off.