(Thought to squeeze in a poast — hope this is okay, Storm!)

He had half closed as he stared into the nausea-making waves. Dark, frothy, foamy. They’d probably look better if they were frozen. Philomel and the Storm man were boarding the ship, and they’d be over in a moment to talk about… whatever. He didn't know.

Suddenly, a strong hand yanked him by the shoulder to face a different direction, eliciting a shocked squeak out of him. He wobbled a little in place, still queasy from being on the boat. The matronly faun Phi, busty and purple haired as ever, was kneeling at his height. Her face was too close to his. Her face was also very lined with worry. Why was she worried? Should that worry him?

“Who did this to you?”

She demanded it in a voice of restrained righteous fury. Not directed at him — thankfully — but it was there. For a moment, Fenn stared at her with blank bug eyes and a half-open mouth, not quite understanding the question. Did… what? Who did what?

If he had a working tongue, it’d have been in knots. Then he thought about Veridian’s sniffing inquisition, and it clicked.

Ahh. Nope. Nopenopenope. A nervous frost trickled up the young puck’s cloak, a few flecks creeping up the faun’s hands. It was a fighting instinct, and one he suppressed with a clenching in his hands. He liked Phi enough to not want to give her frostbite. But he didn’t like anyone enough to bring that shit back up again. Fear flashed across his features and was quickly replaced by something more stoic, harder and colder.

A vague shrug was given. That was technically an answer, wasn’t it?