Firefly Glen but when i go to sleep at night, don't you call my name

Riley was over his head and he knew it. He struggled to keep up with the robust pace of conversation Tiercel supplied; mercifully (or perhaps, devilishly) Tiercel seemed to possess every ounce of superfluous tête-à-tête in which he lacked, filling in what would have been long and awkward pauses otherwise with her rambunctious wit.

He wanted to point out blood was always cause for scrutinity, for it was only shed in one of two ways: assault, or accident -- but his tongue was prised heavily to the roof of his mouth, and his jaws tight as a barrel pillory.

At the mention of vultures Riley craned his head skyward, not even registering a. that it might have been hyperbole and b. that it was night -- nothing but a thin veil of clouds sheathed the starry sky; no dark wings, no distant omens. His gaze returned earthwards, confused.

Esmé. Riley turned the name over in his mind, his tongue at last becoming unstuck from its toothy prison. "Pretty." He said it in the manner a wonderstruck child might comment on the iridescence of a beetle's wings. It was then she came close, retracting in horror seconds later. The reaction spurred Riley backwards himself, his hackles rifling. "What?" He forgot in that moment the polite thing to do was say his name back -- he was too engrossed by Esmé's strong reaction to him to realize his name had entirely slipped by the conversation.