Luneshale Pass It’s time to kill the lights and shut the DJ down.

absolutely none of what the amazon spoke was deciphered by soto -- but he appreciates the careful manner in which she speaks.

maybe it's time he learn the language -- but, agh! such distasteful sounds. no rhythm, no cadence. no beauty.

he misunderstands towhee's gesture as she pats the ground. one eye raising in expressive interest, soto flicks his tail -- is she inviting him to her side? does she want a repeat of their last intimate encounter?

part of him -- the lower half, for certain -- wishes to oblige the presumptive request. yet, much like with fiamma, soto's business here is in the green. he cannot afford distractions.

he steels the growing ache fluttering to life beneath his spine. his gaze looks elsewhere a long while, contemplative. if fiamma was here, she would no doubt tell him he was an idiot -- for his own ego's sake, he's lucky the mercenary is preoccupied at this moment.

not wishing to repeat the burning rejection he'd seen on fiamma's face, soto reaches for towhee's extended front paw with a light pat of his own; one meant to convey companionship, but nothing more -- entirely confident he'd understood her intentions, and having no shred of doubt he could have possibly misunderstood.