"Yeah."

"Why don't you step outside with your friend, Princess?" Giovanni nodded towards the door. There was much work to be done, and none of it was pretty. Besides, he was looking a little shaky on his legs.

Feo touched his hand to his mouth, turning away from the house and towards the bright outdoors. He let his body weight fall against the door frame, suddenly feeling like he couldn't quite catch a breath. The way these otherwise level-headed people so casually maimed and murdered and painted in blood sickened him. None of this shit was normal. Did he even want the legacy he'd been left if the deed was to such a heinous hazard of a land?

Giovanni hefted up a large piece of Melat's leg from which the tar-like blood readily oozed, prepared to help Roo drain it for later use. "Do me a favor and let us work, please, if you will."

"Why do you ask?" He wondered.

"I hate to break it to you," he looked her over. "They're already outside of Altair."

"Possibly," he responded, though to which question was unclear. "Let me know if you ever find yourself with a problem on your hands."

"I could ask the exact same of you." He leveled the question back at her.

Giovanni took the bowl from Roo's hands while she conversed and dipped behind one of the walls to get to work.

Feofil had sat down on the stoop, head tucked nearly between his knees. A couple crimson spatters had gathered in the trodden snow between his shoes, the drip from his nose no longer a continuous stream but not fully stemmed. He inhaled and exhaled in measured breaths, feeling a little bit better out in the open air.

"Not at all," he shook his head. "I'm like a wound-up spring."