The fhwumping landing of the bird stirs her only slightly—a cat, contemplating a nap in a bar of sunlight, flicking its tail in consideration of something it might ordinarily dedicate more focus to. Fitcher has only barely cracked one eye back open by the time Thot is on the move again, bade off by whatever silent communication has passed between man and fade-formed beast.

Instead, she turns her face from the rustled beach grass to Silas alongside. His hands move just beyond the edge of the hat's cast shadow. The sun is warm through the thin fabric of her rumpled shirt. She can feel the residual salt of sweat and ambient grit on her cheek and in the wrinkles about her eyes as she produces a toothy smile.

"With who?"