Pudding, likewise, watches the boats and lanterns - and her little crane, already struggling, as it should - go as the tide carries them. She hears the others around her, shuffles of clothing, little prayers, soft conversations.

She is utterly stunned when she hears words she knows.

They're soft, but the entire shore is quiet and subdued, and when you hear your own language (really hear it, not the strangeness of Beacon's eerily perfect translations) for the first time in weeks of a foreign land...

She just stares, from a few yards away, as Rosinante sings, her eyes wide, her mouth a little slack.

Oh god, it feels like being home.

One hand comes up to cover her mouth as he finishes, as she feels herself tearing up - really tearing up. She shakes her head, quickly wiping her third eye with the back of her wrist under her bangs, before approaching.

"Rosinante..." The tears are still warm and fresh in her two visible eyes, and hell, there are more coming, but she manages to keep them at bay in the third. She doesn't need another disaster this month. "That was beautiful."