The Omen skids to a stop a few feet away from Ariadne, looking up at her, whiskers wiggling. "'Untin' mushromps, too?" the creature asks, paws clasped before itself.

The Oeman's Sleeper pauses a few paces away, basket on arm, reaching up to adjust their mask, almost as if they're facepalming without actually doing so, and letting out a muffled sigh. "I apologize for my Omen's familiarity. They do this with everyone. Especially young people," the tall Sleeper says, bowing their head, their throaty baritone voice only slightly muffled by the mask.