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From the beginning of their association--when Augustine sent him to befriend her, in an echo of something the Saint of Patience could not have known to parallel; something that would have made Illarion's heart clench in his chest if it still beat--the shrike's made a habit of bringing food whenever he visits Sarah's plot in Trenchwood.

It's often been fish or salt or fresh mushrooms from around the Salt Lake, but today's--unusual. Today he's accompanied by a very different Omen, and today he's got dried fruit and fresh bread undoubtedly procured from a market rather than harvested fresh from his own territory.

That's one sign something's a little off-kilter, and another is the doleful look on his face--real, matching the exact emotion roiling in him beneath it--as he presents himself at her door.

It's probably a good thing that Sarah doesn't look out the window before she opens the door, because if she had she might've startled a bit more than anticipated. Because, whoa, there is a dinosaur outside and while she's seen Petrie, he is younger and smaller.

Instead she does her startled mouth-in-an-O once she's opened the door, as her greeting for Illarion gets swallowed up by the surprise in his Omen's changed look, and turns into: "She looks different today!" And then, after a second, "Sorry, that was awkward—hi, lovely to—"

Wait a minute. It's not just the Omen that isn't quite right: "—it's still lovely to see you, of course, but it seems like you're not having the best time. Tea?" She's stepping out of the door to let him in even while asking the question, trying not to be the pinnacle of rude and say what happened to your amygdala, that's different.

He had known, of course, that his Omen's new appearance could be startling--and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might've called ahead to warn her about it. As it is, though, Sarah's state of obvious surprise actually brings a wan smile to his face. That's--something, in his current state of mind and heart.

"We are sorry to startle you. She has been through some changes," Illarion explains, or doesn't, as the case may be. "We both have. Tea would be welcome; we might speak over it."

About the changes, and otherwise. He takes the implicit invitation and steps into the house with her, holding the food out in offering in return.

"Oh, I don't mind a good-or-neutral startle every now and then. Shape changes usually aren't an outright negative kind of startle, unless you hate it," Sarah accepts the Appropriate Social Handoff of Food with the kind of polite smile that is at least genuine. It's not a putting on appearances smile. It's not the sort of politeness that is only a social grace—she means it.

"This smells lovely, too. Feel free to have a seat, I'll get plates and jam and get the tea going."

If there is one thing Sarah is good at, it's hosting people who are expecting a comfortable secondhand couch and a hot cup of tea and not much else. But she's also got jam, and now she's got bread to put it on (as well as the delicacy of dried fruit to share or sample later, or both).

Tiny social rituals of this sort, enacted with someone to whom they come naturally as breathing, are their own kind of soothing. Whether or not Illarion should be included in them, as one of the dead, he still has not decided--but if someone who knows what he is and understands the line between life and death should still invite him in, and offer him tea, he at least feels he is not receiving that attention through deception.

"Thank you," he says, gravely, and takes a seat human-wise on the couch. His Omen paces back and forth beside the furniture, huffing softly to herself, as she tries to determine where and how she fits with this too-large body. At last she settles at Illarion's side, propping her chin on the arm of the couch to await the promise of jam.

When she was a child, Sarah couldn't even tell the living and the dead apart; as an adult, she sees no reason to discriminate one against the other. Even if at the moment she isn't entirely sure where in the continuum Illarion is meant to be sitting.

When she comes back it's with a tray for the rickety coffee table (she found the house as-is, and some of the furniture really needs upgrades) which is carrying a few slices of the bread as well as the jar of jam and some knives. She's unable to resist an "aww" at the Omen who may or may not still be Iskierka. "I never thought a prehistoric avian would be so cute, I have to confess. Does she eat bread? Jam on bread? Jam not on bread?"

There is the soft whistle of a teapot in the background, but it's far from its boil.

The wan little smile's back as Sarah asks after Illarion's Omen. Elves as much as anyone on Nephele were fond of their companion animals, and in this shape, she registers much more like a pet than an uncertain augury; it is easier to take her endearing behavior as exactly that, rather than something he need read into. "If she were other than smoke and blood, jam alone would be best for her."

The Omen in question is already focused on the jam on the tray, the feathers around her head fluffed with interest. "But she would, I think," and here his expression and emotions alike turn a little puzzled, as he registers that she has some preference in the matter, "like the bread as well."

She thumps her tail against the couch in affirmation.

"Well." Sarah's still smiling, but now it's the affectionate-soft sort of smile that one either gives a child or a beloved reasonably intelligent pet; this makes sense, as that's what Illarion's feathered creature is, at least as far as she can tell. And that's who she is talking to. "You're absolutely welcome to both."

Which is why she then quickly spreads a few big dallops of jam on a piece of bread and puts a plate on the corner of the table, where hopefully the height isn't too awkward for her. The "How's that?" is likely for shrike and dino-dragon alike.

Right on time for the kettle to—hum softly like a foghorn, rather than whistle in a shrill fashion as most do. Sarah's most prized Trench possession so far.

Edited 2022-11-01 03:45 (UTC)

To "how's that?", the Omen dips her head in obvious gratitude before leaning in to take up her piece of bread with odd delicacy. This ends with a little of the precious jam slopping back onto the plate before she can rotate a taloned hand in to stabilize her treat--before gulping it back in one large bite.

"Perfect, I am thinking," Illarion remarks, where his Omen can't. The puzzlement's deepened and broadened, and gotten softly fond around the edges. She still isn't, exactly, her own person--but she's much more of one than she had been. "And there is the tea."

It's needless to say so, but he is feeling enough better to want to engage in such chatter, and that's...something in itself.

The dino-Omen eating jam and bread is actually so adorable that Sarah has to stop herself from making more incoherent noises. She's charmed, eyes gleaming brightly. If she had been in a bad mood, it would have been over at this point.

"That is the cutest thing I've ever seen," she says. "I'll go get my eighty-some tea options and let you pick what you'd like."

When she returns once more with a second tray to add to the party, it's two steaming mugs, two infuser spoons and a box full of little jars of tea. Maybe there aren't really eighty-some. But there are options.

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