He looks, for half a moment, about to say something — head tips aside, mouth starts to open in adolescent bravado —

It closes again. Finch is a lot of things: Very cold still among them. It’s enough for a sense of self-preservation (healthy, where demons are concerned) to catch up with his tongue.

"We didn’t come with great sacks of grain," He points out. No green for it to forage here but the kind it's fletched with; there’s a reason they brought dogs for pack animals. Probably that doesn’t matter, though. Probably like most hens, it’ll take flesh. "Is all."

It’s decidedly not, but the decision’s already been made.