She meets the glance. Lowers slowly beside Osytha, hand finding the edge of the porch. There is no more seat to be had, but the air seems to hold. The dress falls in smooth long folds, there's nothing there. The Shroud breathes, slowly, and the moons race across the sky, their light dimming out the swaths of nebulas and the twinkling of stars. Eyes close. There is no argument to be had. White poppy flowers form a crown around the back of her snow-silk updo. An equivalent of fidgeting fingers, or applying perfume, probably, to the same extent as her visage is a sort of mask, or makeup.
"Not how we do it," she says, and that is all she says, quietly, without judgement.

Lock takes the plaid carefully, inclines his head in a small bow, and puts it around the massive shoulders, struggling to tie a little knot with massive fingers, to fashion it somewhat like a cape.
"Why so formal, all of a sudden?" Didn't stop an outburst, or the demand, or the doubt. Humans and their odd rituals. She scratches above the bridge of the nose, mid-brows. The finger doesn't have a blunt-tapering claw, translucent in the moonlight, no, a human digit. "The gift is sweet of you. Thank you." She doesn't understand. But if it's a symbol of belonging, to some abstract group of commoners in this locale, then... well, it is of help. So long as it remains intact - and that would be harder to accomplish, given where they're headed.

She has the patience to listen to the most of it. For the knight, once more, to arrive to a conclusion in her head, agree with herself, and petition for her to agree, as well.
"You want it chased off, not harmed," she reminds. "I know how the two of us would do it. Preparations have been underway since I have re-entered Hytheness. You've chased off the undead. You've made the pyres. You've pacified the townsfolk. Should that not be enough for one day?"

Lock sits on the other side, crouches on his haunches like a big fluffy mound. His focus is on Guffy. He sneezes, softly, hoping for the little bean's attention.

"I was intending to become a hook through its beast-thoughts," she murmurs. "Just need to get close enough to it, out there, on the water. Convince it that the boat's a lure, and that on the other end is a fish far bigger. It would back off, then."
The flowers seem to calcify. Petals become chitin, filaments turn into streaks of pigment. The aroma of flowers slowly fades on the evening breeze.
"How do you wish to help, Osytha?"
Her face turns, and the eyes are Krava's eyes, green glimmering orbs, almost crystalline in their appearance, in the dark. Then, the mask slips firmer on. She cannot wait to be back to the familiar flesh, the first one, the sickly truth of her rather than the palatable presentation. Cannot wait to be away from prying eyes.
 
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“Why so formal, all of a sudden?”​

Osytha cocks her head. “Ah am?” Shrugs. “Sorry. Din’t notice.”

But when they take the cloak back, when Krava offers her thanks… that placid sort of distance in Osytha’s bearing breaks down, and suddenly the woman looks profoundly relieved.

She was worried they’d reject that gift, like they had the others. Osytha couldn’t even explain exactly why it matters so much to her. Only that it feeds some vague, guttering little flame of hope within her breast. For their sakes, or selfishly for her own. She does not know.

“You’ve chased off the undead. You’ve made the pyres. You’ve pacified the townsfolk. Should that not be enough for one day?”​

But Osytha gently shakes her head. “Be nice if et worked like that,” she laments. “Alas, yon sea-wyrm’s comin’ whether or not Ah’ve met my quota of good deeds for t’ day. Can’t turn my back an’ let you tackle that alone. More’n abandonin’ my oath… well, et just wouldn’t be reight.”

A faint sneeze at Osytha’s side draws her gaze over to Lock, crouched and intent upon the wee mutt gnawing away at his treat in her lap. Guffy doesn’t slow the pace of his mastications, but his ears are perked up, and the dark, gleaming wells of his eyes stare back at the fluffy felid fellow. A curly tail flicks, once.

Osytha smiles, lifting boyo off his perch to set him down on the porch. “Them tendons an’ such are more like chew toys to ’im than food,” she tells Lock. “He’ll be up for a spot of chasey, belike.”

“How do you wish to help, Osytha?”​

… Good question, the badger has to admit. Be nice if she’d had, say, a couple of hours to think about that, instead of being locked out of whatever was happening. Oh well. No changing that now, and no point in holding it against Krava’quiloor. Osytha knows the temptation of just, taking care of a job yourself instead of letting some squire ‘help’ by getting their passion-fingers all over it. And to Krava, she probably is that well-intentioned, hapless young squire.

But… a fishing boat as a lure, eh? Perhaps there is something she can do, after all.

“Depends. Reckon we still getten twenty, ’appen thirty minutes to spare?”
 
Lock rumbles a low 'mhm', and ducks a little lower. His massive tail, wrapped around his folded legs, twitches with just a tip. Hello there. Whiskers tremble, and he tries to crouch-walk a little closer to the lop-eared pupper, gauge its interest, while remaining low to the ground enough so as to not scare it. Then again, the slobbering hobby had to occupy the little friend for a while, and so he waits, patient. Blue eyes with a green tint fall slowly half-closed, and a bassy purr vibrates quietly in his chest.

"No," Krava responds, quietly. Her eyes have stopped on Osytha now, and do not leave, looking into one eye, then another, for clarity. "Not like this."

She waits. Enough breath is wasted already, for information to not be transferred and cooperation to still be expected.

"I didn't give your oath. You broke at me, so don't bother calling this shape lady. I need to know that you are going to act in parallel and how, as openly as I have just told you - or you cannot help me. Can you steer the boat well enough to keep it out of its jaws or colliding with its head - or the waves? Can you deploy some dead-matter red light into the water to prolong the time before it sees us? Make a noise large enough to make it stop in its tracks? What exactly do you have in mind, so we can collaborate?"

"I am going to be the rrelayer for the hook," Lock murmurs. "And lady Krrava will need to be still. If no one inhales waterr in that boat, it will be good."
He shrugs, casually, and hopes it clarifies everything that needs be clarified.
 
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Lock’s tail flicks. The pup freezes mid-chew. Black eyes still fixed on Lock’s bright blues. Big, white paws inch closer to the pup. Guffy’s front legs splay out in front of him, front half of his body low against the decking, bum shooting up high in the air.

Play?

“No. Not like this.”​

The tone in Krava’s voice has hooks. Osytha is dragged away from the happy sight of their furry friends — over to the flesh-weaver’s clamorous green eyes.

“I didn’t give your oath. You broke at me, so don’t bother calling this shape lady… Can you steer the boat well enough to keep it out of its jaws or colliding with its head — or the waves? Can you deploy some dead-matter red light into the water to prolong the time before it sees us? Make a noise large enough to make it stop in its tracks?”​

You broke at me. Yes… Osytha feels like the day has broken her a few times now, in different ways. The one that mattered to Krava — she wonders why it’s cut this deep. What meaning she herself cannot see, but which feels like it’s bringing Krava to her own breaking point. Something lost in the outer tongue’s clumsy vibrations, perhaps. Or a gap between their understandings which is beyond any language to bridge.

“Ah’ve been callin’ you ‘lady’ all this time because that’s ’ow you introduced yersen. Just tryin’ to be respectful here, is all. But Ah’ll stop, if that’s your wish.”

Osytha’s hands orchestrate a series of hard little clicks and snug whispers as she begins to take out a number of her implements once again: the bright red disk, the wooden box, the brass cylinder.

“Now, to answer your questions,” she says, laying the objects down on the porch, “Yes, Ah don’t ken what that is, and… likely not, nay.”

Her fingers touch the array one by one. First, the flare. “Not sure if t’ pyrotechnic charge itsen is of use to you. But Ah reckon wi’ some modifications, this ’un could get you more speed.” Then, Osytha taps at the box of weaver’s resin, and her brass null buffer. “Et’ll need juicin’ up of course, but Ah should be able to use these to do sae.”

She leans back. “That’s what Ah’ve got. On short notice, anyroad.”
 
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She inhales to say something else, but stops mid-breath. Eyes narrow, directed to a point in space.
"You're right." Mouth closes. "It means a level of respect and maybe birthright to you, right? It's birthright to me, but if you use it and are not part of the collective, it just feels wrong. Apologies."

She studies the objects with a slight frown. They are alien to her, their sharp corners and unknown function intriguing in the way that studying an imprint of a living thing in stone is intriguing.
"I need to keep its perception off of Lock until he is in range. The water's deep and vast, it will take swimming even once he's changed," she mutters. "I can help you with the... speed?.. Could you take the r- rudder? The steering thing?" she winces, slightly, as if the very notion of something swimming not having some sort of flippers does not fit in her capacity to understand right now. "But I'll only be present mindfully until Lock reaches it. Some time before, even. In terms of time, we have two fingers after dawn, if you want to watch the horizon - that's when it hits the shore."

She's proud of herself, for a moment. Some traveller in the night once taught her to measure time by fingers rather than try communicating time by phrasing such as 'when frogturtles wake up'. Very handy.

Lock chuffs happily, tail tip wagging dog-like as he stares at the puppy, ready to offer a massive hand for struggling, or, or... thoughts weave in his head visibly. Leaping really high and dashing off would probably leave the little fellow in the dust. How can he play?..
 
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“It means a level of respect and maybe birthright to you, right? It’s birthright to me, but if you use it and are not part of the collective, it just feels wrong. Apologies.”​

“Et’s alreight,” assures Osytha. “Thanks for explainin’. Simply ‘Krava’quiloor’, then. Or if we’re pressed for time, ’appen ‘Krava’? Sae long as that en’t just a different kind of rude, anyroad.”

She notes the stalemate tableau at her other side; Guffy but a hair-trigger away from prancing with play, and Lock, eager yet hesitant all at once. With Guffers’ attention so focused on his big, fluffy white friend, the little pup doesn’t notice Osytha carefully lean over, hands outstretched…

“Gotcha!” comes her gloating cry, as fingers snap down on a loose end of that long strip of tendon. Guffy immediately swivels around, paws digging into the boards as he jerks and tugs back against Osytha’s strength. “Arr, vicious! Tha’rt a vicious beast, en’t tha?”

The struggle is intense, but brief, as Guffy’s considerable might quickly overwhelms the hapless Syr Osytha. He dances in and out the reach of her greedy clutches, taunting her into making clumsy swipes, and boastfully trotting around with his prize held high.

“Give et a go,” she encourages Lock. “Don’t be afraid to actually get et off ’im, either. ’E likes chasin’ after et an’ all, ’specially if you mek ’im work for et a little.”

Her eyes linger on their faithful familiars, black little radish and towering white… parsnip? No, that doesn’t feel quite right. She’ll have to think on that one. But, later. When she can spare the time for such satisfying silliness.

“We’ve until just after sparrow’s fart, eh?” Osytha softly bobs her head in consideration. “Not to jinx et, but that should be plenty of time to mek those adjustments, mebbe even come up wi’ yan or tan other things to ’elp us aht… after clearin’ et wi’ yersen, of course. An’ time enow to ’ave a gander at us jolly little bowut — see jus’ what kind of conveyance we’re workin’ with.”

And so I can get one of the fisherfolk to show me the ropes, she adds to herself. Though, how hard can it really be?
 
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Osytha is regarded with another run-away 'snarling demon' happy grin that conveys understanding. Lock is large, larger than most things and could even contend with Forbitter, he was made for breaking things and holding things and sometimes moving things, but not for roughhousing little puppers without a background fear of tossing, pinching or squeezing by accident in a way that would need to be repaired later - and damaged trust was much harder to repair, still.

Once syr turns away, the pocket of chaos ensues behind her back as the terrible snow leopard pretend-hunts and plays tug-of-war, and lets Guffy chase his tail and even bite on his huge hands a little, it doesn't really hurt. At some point, he is holding the tendon with the puppy wiggling on the other end following his own fast tail-whips that seem poised to try and give him more momentum.

Krava smiles faintly as she catches the stray surface thought. Pumpkin. Big, lumpy pumpkin of the grey variety, sweet and rich in temper. She waits for Lock to correct Guffy with one paw, but end up dramatically falling on his back, making the porch groan out of almost-breaking panic, the puppy still struggling for the tendon ownership knee-deep in the thick fur. Takes a bit of chitin from her crown, a thing like stem and root in one snaking around her finger. Puts a bright yellow pumpkin flower behind Lock's ear for emphasis.

She thinks deeply, then. Invention is afoot, of the people humor variety. There.
"Well I've looked for the ass crack of dawn, maybe I should get closer to these knights of yours to tell time?" She is once more very proud of herself, only for a moment. "Don't forget, we ought to depart from shore some distance, if you want it alive then we don't want it beaching. Lock will need to be minorly adjusted for the swim, as well. Not like last time."
Mostly, she can't wait to be out of most people's eyesight. They think too loudly of things like 'is that a wart on my ass' whilst scratching, and while it's dismissable in the majority of cases - she'd rather prefer less noise.

Loretta drifts closer. Doesn't seem to register Krava's way of sitting - no one seems to.
Whatever. Once the Creed leave, maybe they'll miss the porch end whilst putting down a bucket a couple times, and then minds will adjust.
"Hey, Lady Kay, syr Osytha!" she greets, smiling, the chipped front tooth whole and all of them with narry a blemish. "Turning in for the night?"

Krava stares, eyebrows slightly raised. She could forwarn the dialogue to follow. No, you can't be helping, go away, good night. She feels the intent through the newly forged network. And yet, she makes a short puff of air through her nose and turns her head to watch Lock lift Guffy up into the air under the front paws. Wobble-wobble. What a playful little salad.
 
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