Ellis doesn’t drink, or he might busy himself portioning out whiskey from a flask in his pack. As is, he boosts Thot to a perch at his shoulder to rustle it out for himself -- wax-sealed leather twisted out from the tuck of his journal and an extra scarf. Just a bolt to scorch his throat and warm his chest, the cork worked back in firm before he thinks to tilt it across Ellis’ preparations in silent offer.

It’d be rude not to.

And everyone knows how well-mannered and civilized Mr. Dickerson is.

Then he’ll either put it away or he won’t; Thot will blink her lantern eyes and bustle out through the crevice into the night at some unspoken exchange. The quiet lasts for a while.

“Have you ever considered caring for an animal of your own?" He pauses. "Something more personable than a chicken."