Paying My Respects

The time has passed quickly. Seventeen Days, six hours, twelve minutes and thirty-three seconds, to be exact. I miss her more than words can express and that is why I have journeyed east from my family in Wildwood to visit her today. Again. The thicket grows tall around me, (I like to imagine) stained with the buried blood of my ancestors, and each  of the trees my eyes pass sombrely over appear to wear the old skin of the same. In a sense the idea is a gruesome one, though I find it rather fitting, beautiful actually, that Old Mother’s beloved body might live on through something equally as magical. As they stand vigil in this sacred place, I pass through in silence, long, slender fingers ghosting by one cold face and then another. Even my breath draws quietly, shallower than required. These woods are haunted, whether by souls that lost their way, or those who Mort returned (I couldn’t know), and I care not to stir them from slumber this day. It is easy to find her grave. I took care to dress it on top with an extra lantern and have returned thrice weekly to relight the flame. To the left of the lantern sits a wooden bowl (her favourite to cook with), and in that is a collection of the very finest roots I could unearth in late Flowerbirth. I am grateful for Mort’s timing. It was the season she enjoyed most. I thank the God of Death once more, lifting a silent prayer. New litter has fallen across her bed. Even if I were able to stoop low enough to cleanse it, I wouldn’t. It is well understood that Rae would see the return of leant vessels when souls depart this life. Again, I feel that’s quite beautiful. The Old Gods are generous.   The roots I left previously have shrivelled in the bowl. It’s no wonder either, the weather has been stiflingly hot; even as I pause now, sweat beads along my front hairline. I am ever thankful for the sanctuary we live in. I balance carefully, swinging the far end of my walking-stick to tip out the old contents. The ground would soon enough devour it. This time I have brought a generous helping of Peppermint Bark, preserved in a cool swathe of Snow Moss. I may have sampled a little of the bark along the way. Still standing unassisted, in a slow and delicate motion my hands unwrap the offering (to Ludo, for Mort, for Old Mother), and shuffling steps allow me near enough to fill the bowl once more. Still I say nothing. There is no need, for the dead cannot hear. A tender smile leaks into my expression as I hover on in quiet ceremony, remembering Old Mother; at least, making certain not to forget.

A white fox and a pale gryphlet, young still and the size of a small cat in spite of her snow-leopard body and snowy owl head, wings, and feathered foretalons, made their way through the Greatwood with unhurried steps. Well. The fox was unhurried, a long-legged, lanky creature with blue eyes and a silken coat. The gryphlet was a young creature, given to pouncing and playing as they journeyed, chasing beetles and leaf-shadows upon the loam of the forest floor.

They were an unusual pair to begin with, made more unusual by the pale green cloth bag that the fox carried in his mouth as they traveled. The Woods had led them a circuitous path, but they had Arduinna's blessing and the lorekeeper was getting the knack of travel beneath the boughs of the Wildwood now, and so their path eventually, almost without them realizing it, led to the mist-draped trees of Ludo's Woods.

When last they had come this way they had been alone, curious and reverent, and their prayers were met with the soulguide's mischievous presence at the shrine. Now, however, white ears pricked forward as the sound of shuffling steps caught the fox's attention, and he mentally called his companion closer to his side as his own dainty steps slowed. Curiosity was his defining vice, and it would be the end of him one day. Perhaps even this day... but still he turned from his path to investigate the source of the sound.

The sight that greeted him was curious but familiar: a grave, an offering, a life left behind to mourn the dead. Thought not, he was glad to see, with tears of loss, but rather with a smile of joy for a life well-lived and well-loved. From the edge of the clearing the fox set his burden down gently and bowed his head in respect, the gryphlet at his side peeping softly in curiosity before being nudged into better manners and echoing his pose.

An hour drifts by, perhaps three. This body grows increasingly tired of upright posture and flagging thighs quiver in warning. Though leaning a fair burden of weight against my stick, there is no compensation for true rest and I at last turn my energy to finding a suitable seat. There is a great fallen tree not a long distance from Old Mother’s bed. It has bore my wearying muscles many a time before and it is in the direction of this that my face first turns. The last thing I expect to see, however, is a couple of curious critters, poised in earnest gesture by the glades thinned out skirt. An eyebrow quirks on my face: how peculiar. The Greatwood too, is home to perhaps the most unwary of Caido’s population of animals, and many a fox I’ve crossed paths with previously, lingered just as curiously on the spot as I. This instance is different though. Beside the snowy-pelted canine (another disparity from the norm), is a puny beast built from too many others to make sense. It is a Gryphon as I understand and one clammy hand reaches immediately for my journal and pen. The heap of woven fabric which rests with my company, is not yet apparent. For the moment my fatigue takes a backseat; I am yet to make an entry about this mythical native. I angle my lower arm to rest in the wooden fork just below the elbow and pressing heavily down upon it, hurry, slowly, to find a fresh page near the middle of the book. My fingers fumble then, about the quill’s length clumsily, and it falls into the mulch below with nary even a whisper. I curse silently, green eyes glaring down at it. There is no way for me to retrieve it, a fact that frustrates me further still, and yielding grimly to my predicament I choose to return my focus to the fox - more its companion. That is when I finally notice the bag. Lifting my eyes back to the pair, my tongue clacks boldly against the eerie silence of Ludo’s Woods, volume regretted instantly. Instead, my lips purse into a sequence of gentle kisses and I click softly with lean fingertips extended beyond the hemmed edge of my cloak; as though it might entice one, or both, creatures forward. “Come. Bring it here…” I add for good measure.

Her wings were not immediately evident, but her diminutive size made it likely the reverent mourner was one of the Fae, and it made Jigano hesitant to shift and possibly frighten her. If it had been someone within the Hollowed Grounds he might have continued on his way after paying his respects, but if she was Fae, then the words spoken with Deimos and Ianto had even more bearing. To build bridges and make friends, one slow step at a time. Patience and persistence. And that meant that instead of taking up his burden again and trotting deeper into Ludo's Woods, the fox waited to see if they would be noticed - not a difficult thing in the summertime, when his snowy pelt was the opposite of camouflage.

He and Isuma were still and quiet as the old woman - no, the girl? Despite her hunched and aged appearance from behind, her face was unlined and almost childlike - turned to look at them, but the bard's curiosity turned to delight when the girl reached for book and pen, a scholar after his own heart.

The moment the pen fell was a telling one, the Fae's expression upset and, just as clearly, helpless to do much about it with her... injuries? Illness? Isuma was already scampering down the low ridge before green eyes rose to pin them, and the girl clicked her tongue at them as if they were pampered pets. Amused in spite of the indignity, Jigano picked up his bundle and made his own way down, though he set the bundle behind a stump before he finished coming near. Isuma was already nosing at the dropped quill, and Hazel's feet, her tiny beak gentle as she reep!ed reassurance to the petite woman. The fox snorted gently, blowing warm air over her shoulders to remind her of her manners before took the quill in gentle teeth and rose up on his hind legs, balancing deftly - though reaching out a paw to tap against the girl's stick and give him the slightest help of balance - as he proffered the writing utensil back to her with mischief in his blue eyes.

Delight! The feeling easily overwhelms the last, discouragement, and loosens my expression quickly. The Gryphon is in motion even before my innocent attempt to summon them both forward, so unexpected and so fearlessly that my spine strains to right itself under the burden of wilted muscles; this has never happened to me before. The thought: Ludo’s Woods are haunted, does cross my mind, but intrigue extinguishes my natural wariness, like rain over the flame. It never occurs to me at all that that the pair could represent any being more sinister - such is the nature of my young, gullible heart. The smaller, feathered-furred animal arrives first at my leather-bound feet, and quickly too; a flurry of unbridled enthusiasm and immature sound. They are endearing to say the least, inconceivably friendly, though my nerves do sting with uncertainty. My thoughts, common-sense, rise in unison, willing me loudly to reconsider, to flee, but my body will not cooperate, I know, so I revel in the moment instead like a fool in the dark. The same hand inches lower, as though inviting the small beak upward, my eyes all the while engrossed in the bizarre image before them. However, it is not the Gryphon that arrives in the palm's quivering centre, but the pen which had been lost only a moment before. “Oh,” my throat motions with a start. “Thank you…” At the same time thin fingers wrap around its length and retreat back beneath the shroud of clean tartan; pale green eyes openly examine the almost, almost, human quality of the dog’s eyes. I tell myself with unnecessary harshness: it is wild, Hazel, only another beast. But mine still refuse to leave the other’s captivating blue gaze. Though neither animal has offered a threatening stance (rather the very opposite, indeed), I consider moving to rob Old Mother’s bowl and throw forth the fresh bark to feed them, defer their interest from me; not that I feel particularly scared. Again though, there is the problem of missing mobility. At last my eyes pull free, though the fox’s perhaps had never been so tethered, and I withdraw somewhat into the shadowy warmth of my mantle; once more my face falls into darkness, and though my sharp jawline still wears an amicable smile, I retake the stick (carefully, so as not to frighten either), and recoil two shuffles backwards. Stale breath I'd not noticed was trapped, sighs through the small crack between my lips. “Mother will worry.” I tell them (myself) aloud, again internally scolding the emergence of my glaring stupidity. Mort and his herald would think nothing better of me after this - I am certain.

Jigano studied the young Fae curiously as he retrieved her quill and she regained it. After a moment he sat back, head cocked up as he watched her, trying to discern her thoughts. She seemed wary and enchanted both, curious and uncertain about this strange fox and his gryphon, and he couldn't really blame her. Rather than continue to intrude on her space the white vulpine trotted a few feet back to the stump and hopped up onto it so he could watch her from a more equal height - though his head was still below hers. Her smile was a good sign, but her very frailty made him concerned about shifting back and startling her. He didn't want her to get hurt if she reacted with fear and tried to stumble back... and he wasn't one to shift out of his fox form with an audience anyways.

Isuma reep?ed curiously, golden eyes worried when the girl shuffled back, and the gryphlet paused in her curious examination of this new person to sit back on her haunches, forelegs resting over her fuzzy belly. Jigano snorted softly, amused at her usual antics, letting the love he felt for her suffuse their bond, before the Fae's quiet voice focuses his attention back on her. It seemed she was leaving, and really, he couldn't blame her. She hadn't recognized him as a person who could talk to her, and so why should she stay? But if she did he had no idea when or if they would meet again... A low whine of uncertainty slipped from his throat as he shifted his paws, debating whether to stay as a fox, or...

It was a risk. A gamble. But worthwhile things often were, and he finally hopped off the stump and trotted back to one of the large red-barked trees, slipping behind its sheltering shadow. He did not come back out the other side, but a gentle tenor, soft and musical, emerged from behind the trunk as Isuma continued to sit and watch the Fae with curious eyes.

"That is Isuma," he said, his own eyes closed as he borrowed the vision of his companion, fuzzy and tilted at a strange angle though it was. "And I am Jigano. Please don't be afraid of us. We were on our way to Ludo's shrine when we saw you. I'm sorry if we startled you."

A sound so slight nearly slips by me unnoticed as I make an earnest bid to sever my curiosity from the strange, tangible dream before me (when else should the wild possibly become so cosy?). The Gryphon responds to my movement by sliding their narrow hips down into a sit while the white fox already, has withdrawn to the blunt crown of a tree stump to eye me further, whining oddly as they perched. My own gaze softens, awash with indecision, and a similarly ambivalent frown twists the left corner of my mouth. The darkness shifts across my face as I turn it towards the direction home lies and a shaft of murky daylight touches my expression momentarily. When I glance back I am both surprised, relieved and a touch dismayed to find that the larger animal has vanished. The fox. A warm, rogue wind fans the leafy canopy above and around me, and my discerning eye picks out flickering foliage bronzed so subtly by illness; by the poison let to bleed into The Greatwood when those of The Hollowed Ground were freed. I shiver. Turning my interest back to the mythical whelp, a thoughtful smile resumes. “Best you find shelter too.” My voice hums down with the gentleness of morning sunlight. “Neither of us want to see the Cat Sith tonight. Though the words I present titter back into calm quiet between us, there lingers an ominous truth behind them; an invisible whisper through the soil, maybe, as the recently fallen cling to buried lanterns, waiting with growing anticipation for their guide - “That is Isuma…” I startle on the spot, teetering until a blazing surge of adrenaline offers my brain aid. The neck shifts above the helpless slouch of dystrophy, both hidden well in the depths of my covering, and with concern, nay, fear paling a moon-kissed complexion further, I search the surrounding tree-line for the unexpected voice’s owner. My tongue, so brave and forthcoming barely seconds before, now sits paralysed and useless across my lower teeth. “…And I am Jigano.” The exotic names and further explanation spill through the woods’ new stillness to haunt me, wrapped in friendly tone, perhaps even kindness, but confusion spurs my panic on: what Fae has ever befriended wildlife enough to name it? The thought takes a sour turn, escalating dramatically between my suddenly pounding temples: what if the Gryphon is a prisoner?… Troubled, these eyes widen upon the small winged creature and I find that I cannot step, turn or move otherwise (I can barely breathe); I am frozen to the earth and at the mercy of the stranger who lingers in the wings of obscurity - more fuel for the fire. I want to demand: “show yourself!”, as surely would the fabled courageousness of Delah reveal itself, but instead, my bones tremble wildly while my voice breaks in muted waves against the barrier of bewilderment. I stand, still, without breaking character, stupidly, entirely unprepared for whatever Jigano reveals themself to be. Not a Cat Sith at least…

Cat Sith? A curious term, and a question worth asking, if conversation proved possible. But there was no guarantee of that, not with how poorly relations between the Fae and the humans had gone so far, and Jigano wished he could have done more to ease the way between their two peoples, said more, or at least been given a chance...

The present was an important moment, and if he could smooth the way just a little he would, he decided. Assuming he didn't scare the poor child out of her boots in trying to do it, of course.

He sighed softly as he leaned against the tree, the bark feeling almost unsettlingly warm against his back. Isuma showed the Fae girl frozen, or at least still, and the voice that emerged was far from curious. There was far too much fear in it, and nothing of the interest he had hoped for. Stepping away from his sheltering tree he peeked around the edge of its trunk first, white hair, golden-brown skin, and blue eyes appearing cautiously before he slowly edged the rest of the way out--

And then immediately sat down, heedless of the loam on his brown breeches as he tried to make himself as nonthreatening as possible, lifting open hands in front of himself to show her his empty palms. His wrap-around tunic was green, with clever leaf patterns dyed into the linen cloth, but his long hair was silver as starlight as he folded his lean form down to something less looming over the petite girl, even as he kept his distance, letting Isuma stand between them.

Even if the gryphlet was distracted by a buzzing fly, her little head moving to trace its flight rather than remain on Hazel any longer.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said again, gently. "I'm sorry."

Panic will achieve nothing. My lips part into a generous oval and lungs suck hard, drawing at length a breath to slow the hammer of my  suddenly unruly heart. At the same time these pale eyes shut and I make a conscious effort to stop; to really unwind. Another breath is taken, then another and another. Every time I exhale, a feeling is volunteered to depart with it, forced from this physical vessel like a withered leaf from the tree; fear, confusion and surprise are purged so that room for clarity and consideration can be made. It is working, this technique that Old Mother taught me to reign in my emotions, and refreshed significantly, I once more allow the not-Fae, to invade my visual field. Only a second has really passed by. To my relief, that towering predator he had appeared to me to be, has vanished into something so much smaller and more reasonable; still huge of course, considering my measly height, burdened further by disease, but I no longer need to lift my chin at least to behold his whole length across the way. Listening ears receive his apology properly as the deafening thrum of pulsing blood begins to soften and I manage a look for him, that isn’t quite so unfriendly. My spirit isn’t mean. I peer, still with caution, between his upturned palms and then again to his face, long, lean and framed by stark white (all very foreign traits indeed). It was as my own began to examine his eyes, that I imagined something familiar about them, the queerest hunch. At the feeling, my nose wrinkles a little and my mind moves to expel it: I have never seen this human before… There had been another, of course, a female with a fiery head of hair that reminded me of Arduinna. It seemed that the curse of the not-Fae was already leaking into the depths of The Greatwood. I’d seen two in as many weeks. After a long time spent watching him, I asked: “what are you doing in The Greatwood?” My voice retained a little of the worry since worked through and I stood as before, waving precariously between one desire to flee (perhaps there were more with him), and another of toxic curiosity. “…and what business have you at the shrine?”

He had no fear of her fleeing him, at least, not with how the girl leaned upon the crutch. Hurting herself trying to flee was a real possibility, and one he hoped they could avoid by tucking himself down small and unthreatening. No, there was nothing to be gained by being less then polite, and the Wood belonged to the Fae. He was only an interloper here - or a guest, if Arduinna's invitation to him remained open - and he was very conscious of that fact as he waited to see what she would do.

He sat, half-holding his own breath as she seemed to focus on just breathing, and waited patiently for her to either find her courage or lose it. Or perhaps she had no real choice in the matter, whatever the injury that caused her to lean upon the crutch was. But the wary curiosity in her eyes when she began to examine him boded well for her bravery, and slowly Jigano lowered his hands to rest them on his knees.

Isuma peeped quietly to herself and then pounced after the fly, leaving the space between them empty as the girl spoke, and Jigano nodded at the questions, both good ones. "As I said, I was on my way to Ludo's Shrine. I wish to pay my respects there, and to bring the god those things they requested of me when last I prayed." He tilted his head to the side, careful to keep his expression pleasantly neutral and not letting the smile he felt so much as twitch his lips. "They were inside the Barrier for a long, long time, and though I was only trapped for a fragment of that time, still it feels good to be someplace with life, hale and healthy again." He had many things he wanted to ask her in return, but school himself to patience and quiet, letting her lead the conversation - well, interrogation, really - for now.

At the not-Fae - Jigano’s - mention of the god, and the fact that he’d actually trespassed through Ludo’s Wood in the past, I find myself still more surprised. Words dither on the tip of my stubborn tongue, brushing too eagerly against the back of my well clenched teeth: “You are Natural?” Contemplative silence withheld its crown, however, as he continued his answer: this one comes from the bubble as well. It doesn’t seem to count that my company looks very clean. His clothes are tidy, well-fitted and of quality fabric; the warm-toned skin beneath, seems washed, young and taught across fine bones; rather, not leathered by careless sun exposure or sullied as I’d imagine a ruffians to be. It hardly matters either, that his tongue articulates my language so remarkably well and the words he uses indicate an educated mind. I still feel unclean in his presence. Uncomfortable. The dim forest light tricks my briefly wandering eye into believing the tired wilt of wooden arms; or does it? Slowly this chin dips into a nod and the story he offers is accepted. A small quantity of tension is released from my torso, enough for my figure to sigh visibly, and I relax the painful grip my fingers have taken, around the old branch: he means no harm… to me. The Gryphon, who is still present but clearly distracted, next becomes my focus, my priority: “why do you keep her?” My brow furrows unhappily as I presume his guilt aloud, driving a hard glare in his direction should words alone fall short expressing my opinion. “Isuma.” Conditioned to assume the worst of these Outlanders, I am fast to judge: she is native, you are not. Back home, my family lives aside two beetles, giants of their genus; they are free to roam these woods, but return to aid us when they please. We pay them well for each service in food and necessary healing. We do not keep them. I await Jigano’s response.

He watched her as he spoke, keeping his voice quiet and conversational, trying to project calm as best he could across the clearing between them. It was a relief when she sighed and seemed to loosen her grip on her stick, a victory of diplomacy that had his lips starting to curve into a friendly smile until her voice cut out across the Woods, quiet but sharp as a blade. She might not have any weapons of steel or iron to wield against him, but her tongue was wicked as a cracked whip and he blinked in surprise, looking to the gryphlet as she bounded happily after her prey. The fly buzzed and bumbled along until the snap of a small beak clicked shut a little too close for comfort and then it zipped away, leaving Isuma to sit back and regard the place it was with something that could only be called a pout.

Jigano knew how she felt. It felt like the Fae girl's relaxation had vanished as thoroughly, and with as little warning. He was the supplicant here, though, and he took a deep breath to calm the spike of outrage he felt at her accusation, the insinuation that Isuma was a pet. It was like speaking to Melinoe all over again, though at least she had the excuse of being newly arrived and concussed for her rudeness. Was Eliza the only courteous one among the Fae? Or perhaps the only one brave enough to seek out her own answers without Delah's biases clouding her eyes. Regardless, his temper would help no one here, and he forced it back, regarding Hazel solemnly.

"What makes you think she is 'kept' at all?" he asked her back, keeping his voice neutrally curious. "Are Fae never chosen by companions, never chosen as a soulbond to another life to share their journey?" He shook his head, glancing away from Hazel to watch the gryphlet as she shook off her huff and bounded over to him, hopping up to his shoulder and putting her talons gently on the crown of his head as she stretched up after something she had seen on the tree beside him. He couldn't quite keep his lips from twitching towards a fond smile as he let himself be used as a glorified cat tower, instead arching a brow at the girl. "My friend Amalia was chosen by a starwhale calf when she was held in your Village. As Isuma chose me, this past Deepfrost. We do not 'keep' each other, miss. We are family, bound heart and soul, and both the stronger for it."

My face tilts slightly, ear lifted and listening, regarding this next explanation with due care and undeniable wonder. The longer we balance here, teetering on the knife’s edge together, less becomes my brooding dislike and greater grows invested interest above good sense. Without knowing it, my free fingers have taken another stride towards nonchalance, climbing hither to sweep a lock of loose auburn from my face. In a brazen show of rebellion, even before I think to halt them, their steady motion collects the rim of my blue and green, tartan hood, and pull it back half way along my head. Light illuminates my exposed face along with the rooted ends of both muddled braids and dreadlocks; dyed string wraps snugly around a few in small, uneven sections, though whether these are visible from the angle of Jigano’s seat is uncertain. It is clear that I have a good amount of hair buried behind me though, possibly an indication that my health has not suffered the way of my posture. Vaguely rosy cheeks, residual hue after such a brash bust of feelings, sit above the yet tentative curl of a half-smile. Tolerance. The defiant hand falls heavily back to its perch inside the mouth of my concealed bag. Without speaking again for a long time, I allow my mind to digest the strange quality information it has received. The moment feels dreamlike, surreal, and I wonder what Old Mother, or Delah, would think about it all. At the same time, my eyes watch openly as the intimate relationship between the pair plays out; Isuma treading her human like an infant of the same kind, is indisputable evidence that supports his story. A measure of true trust is clear. The concept, so unlike any experience I have taken previously, is a bewildering one. The creatures of this forest move as completely seperate entities - as is my understanding. Nevertheless, I at last offer my nod. Accepted. Treating myself to another long breath, it occurs to me that I really need to sit; the powerful fear-induced hormones since enjoyed, are draining from my lazy limbs and I can feel these begin again to tremor. Having reached the point of amity, maybe, and without revealing my weakness (no matter how glaring it was already), I suggest: “will you sit with me?” and move with aching slowness to find the fallen log originally intended. It is close, but time seems to crawl before my arrival. Without exposing my body any further, I curl into a shallow crouch beneath the dense, long veil of cloak and find good comfort atop the selected portion of crumbling, dead wood; I tuck long, translucent wings to the side so they aren't crushed in the process. The relief is instantaneous and I lean backwards gradually, finding support against a lopped branch spanning upwards. All the while my eyes monitor Jigano.

She was younger than he had thought at first, he realized when she pulled the hood back and allowed the light to strike her face more clearly. Her hair was a wildfire, thick and auburn and complimenting the leafy green of her eyes. He didn't dare to make a move, not to comment or compliment, lest he ruin whatever impulse had led her to show herself to him more clearly. All he did was blink - and then wince as one of Isuma's talons slipped and caught in his hair. She peeped an immediate apology, hopping down to cuddle into his lap and he soothed her with a smile and a stroke over her wings as he waited for their Fae host to decide what she would do with them.

The offer was more than he had expected after her last volley, and he bowed his head graciously, grateful for it even as he tried to caution his heart against too much optimism. "I would be glad to," he murmured, looking up to catch her slow journey to a nearby log, each motion made with what looked like careful deliberation. He waited until she was seated before shifting Isuma carefully up to his shoulder. He unfolded his own long legs and rose - slowly, slowly, careful to keep his hands in sight and moving so that she could see what he intended before he did it. He didn't try to come too close, coming only as far as the other end of the log before he sat - not on the wood itself, but on the ground in front of it, leaning back against it so that her head remained a few inches above his own.

The gryphon was far less cautious, hopping from his shoulder to the log and trotting across it, balanced by her long, fluffy tail as she came back towards Hazel to investigate her again with her usual cheerful curiosity. Jigano grinned and made no move to stop her, instead propping an arm upon his bent knee and tilting his head at his reluctant hostess. "You do not have to give me your name if you don't want to," he said, cautiously courteous. "But may I have something to call you by? I don't mean to offend, and I hope you'll correct me if I do so from ignorance. My understanding of your people is limited largely to Delah and Arduinna... Neither of whom have much patience for idle chatter," he added wryly.