Ach, my bones, my poor bones. [ Luna flashes him a mischievous smile, but abandons the imitation schtick before they can both grow tired of it. That light tug at her braid sends an answering shiver down her spine, a little ripple of warmth bubbling up; she restlessly readjusts her position again, now sitting comfortably cross-legged in the chair. She's bad at sitting still and usually feels the need to fidget, and does so now: absentmindedly nudging a rogue olive around the edges of her share plate. ]

Thank you, Charlie. I'm glad you're here, too — it's nice having a familiar face around, my first time out of the country.

[ She takes another sip of the tsiporou. It's settled into her stomach and her head, and there's a pink tinge to her pale cheeks; her alcohol tolerance isn't the highest and she can already feel it buzzing in her fingertips, loosening her tongue. ] Are you fine being called Charles or do you hate it?