They need a grace period, Misty has decided, and in that way witches do is silently willing the universe to bend to that. Demanding, really. She can, has, and will eventually endure worse. The suffering of her chosen few is, however, an affront to...

It's tense, is all. The course ahead is projected to be rough, but manageable. What they need is no further disruption. Dust to settle. New stimuli to get footing.

What they do not need is nuclear-level friendly fire, halfway through dinner. She stills, mirroring Soldat's snap. Differing natures. There's no denying him his language now. There's no denying him the first word, period.

"Nothing in there that needs reinforcing. You have a skull, and if bits need tacking on, it'd be skull. Who put it there?"