[ Charlie's hand is delightfully warm and rough and scarred, and even as he (they) regretfully let go, her fingers curl into her palm in the absence. Luna's unsurprised to realise that his hands are callused, where hers hands are soft, haven't hardened yet from her current foray into life as a field academic. Her fingers are usually just ink-stained from her wildlife doodles and scribbling notes in her naturalist's journal, which is half-indecipherable even to her colleagues, little observation fragments mingled with reminders to herself: gills? — kappa familiaris — I think it likes the smell of mango — buy loaf of bread from market later. ]

We're not roughing it quite as you are. There's a bed-and-breakfast run by this formidable Greek witch, and she makes a wonderful breakfast. We must have taken up the last of her rooms so there wasn't any left for your lot, but I suppose you're used to tents. [ A beat, an idle curiosity as to how the rugged dragonologists live: ] Are they bigger on the inside than not, or are they regular tents?