Scrtch, scrtch, is the sound her claws make in the bristle of hair at the back of Silas' neck too, her arm flung haphazardly over him. There's no semblance of grace in any of it. It takes a few sweaty minutes and maybe a marginally less polite inquiry at the door to differentiate between the two.

Maybe the creature is wondering whether she's murdered him, is an idle thought paired with, That's probably not how that works.

"Your beastie is asking after you," is a low rumble somewhere from inside the tangle of sharp points made malleable. The drape of Fitcher's arm remains as is; this is an informative statement rather than urging him to do anything about it.