And also Thot is there, more goblin than cat, twisting warm and wet under Ellis’ arm, behind his ear, close enough to catch the brunt of that first cough full in the face. The rasp of her tongue crosses his nose, his chin.

“Onto his side,” Dickerson is ready to direct, already levering to assist with a push at the hip.

“Ellie seems to be very taken with your eyes,” he adds, helpfully, for Abby’s benefit -- this buzzard of a Rifter mage in blood-streaked armor helping her to roll the man they just brought back from the dead over onto his side so he doesn’t choke on his own gore. “She has several drawings of you in her room.”

Most of the business end of Ellis is on Abby’s end of their current arrangement; the best Richard can do is dig a reassuring grip in firm above his knee.