Fitcher shifts accordingly, tucking a bent arm between her head and the ground. The pipe's stem is set between her teeth and the bowl rests briefly in line with her sternum in the open V of her shirt collar as she produces her little Riftwatch issued light. It takes a few quiet moments to scorch the surface of the the tobacco, to employ the bottom of the lighter to tamp down the swollen flakes, and then to light the bowl's contents properly. Eventually, given a few reassuring puffs, she settles comfortably there in the crook of her own arm.

"Matteo Garza," she says, the words smelling sweet and earthy as she exhales them. "His uncles made silk flowers using a great press with metal stamps. It could be relied on to go thumping away from sunrise to sunset. Made for excellent cover so long as you were careful to bang away right over top of it."

Is that self-deprecation or boasting egotism in the look she flicks in his direction? Both, maybe. Youth is disgusting.

"But I'm not sure it counts. They had furniture set out up there in the summer."