Drink isn't usually one of Myr's vices (more something studiously avoided; it's never gone well for him when he's been drunk), but today warrants the healthy hit he takes off the requisitioned cooking wine. It's supposed to help this sort of thing, isn't it? Make it distant and forgettable.

Though he's very sure he won't lightly forget this, surreal as the conversation makes the whole situation. He sets the bottle down on the table (Still Life With Elf) carefully and inches down along the bench and away (he assumes) from Leander's line of sight. The atrocity overgrowing him stretches like non-Euclidean putty to follow, flesh pulled to streamers as it struggles to maintain its intangible embrace.

"Oh," breezily, to Benedict, "working, the better to ignore the Gallows going to the Void. The Seneschal's an inspiration of mine. Though obviously I should've been down here modeling much sooner."