[Please, save that sleeve, he can use his cloak for the rest of the blood sweat. He does that hastily, pushing his glasses up and askew in the process and humming irritably behind the fabric. Yes, they definitely fed off each other, what a lovely thing to add to the notes—]

They must have, [he says, half-muffled, oop] But that ritual of yours is handy. Who figured that out?

[He says all of this... into the cloak as he wipes his face and neck free of blood sweat... it's fine. Being kissed as soon as he puts the cloak down is a welcome non-answer to the important ritual lore questions and he leans into it like a drowning man. Good— they're good. Yet again, against all odds, they're good.

So, hm. He comes over to the desk and turns to lean back against it, tsking at the mess of broken glass and books and shiny orbs tossed all over just one half of the room. Weird vibe.]

I saw— something, when he touched us before. His memory? And his state of mind back then drew me in; I couldn't do anything but wait.

[Anyway, completely unrelated question,] Where's Rio?