THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.

One that's hard to describe but becomes all the more obvious as they go to take a closer seat next to him. Certainly a little company wouldn't be a bad thing.

"Ah, that's real. Long trips can take so much out of you. No wonder you need a moment to just pause. Glad that you're taking this time for yourself." Goodness knows it can be easy to just not do that at all. Something they had been guilty of too many times.

They give an understanding, dry little chuckle.

"I.. get the exhaustion. I genuinely do." Different tasks but constant work, constant labor and efforts - even for those who have been doing such things for such a long, long time - the weariness seeps in. And it sticks around deep in a way that many might not really ever fathom.

"Can't blame you for being knackered Slisae. Not in the least." They sip at their own little drink that they still were making their way through casually.

He appreciates his long-term expeditions while they last, at least having time to sit somewhere faraway on an assignment. At home — there is ample time to rest, but also the time spent where he has nothing to do with his hands. And idle hands drive him places unsolicited. One might say he's a workaholic for this, driving himself too deep into jobs. ( nothing has changed from living in his homeland, it seems. )

Slisæ watches Ati for some time; they are the same as him on many matters, but he feels envious — why does he not feel as free as they do? ( it is nobody's fault, truly. ) The melting ice clinks and adjusts on its own accord, and his head dips regarding his rampant thoughts. To revisit his hobbies and individualism feels like the correct path to getting back on his fee, he can’t stay mired in work as a distraction forever. So he tries a weak smile. "I'll be alrigh', these things take time." Brow furrowing and crows' feet apparent in the low light, it's a short beat before he rasps again, "D'ya have any recommendations on drinks?" Segueing into something more lighthearted for now.

The ballroom sparkles with gin and tonic laughs, glass slippers like twinkling cat bells, and high society women with their pin cushion up-dos and tapioca pearl necklaces. Tonight, throwing a party for the return of a great artist, the room is sardined with the country’s elite. They dreidel in dance. 

Before him is a man dressed like a funeral and with the voice of hookah smoke. 

Nicholas used to be a priest. 

The hulking wraith, draped in embroidered silk and embellishments, hisses slightly with each draw of breath, bringing in the heavy air behind the veils. This isn't his normal haunt — he shouldn't be here. In his withered, lich-like state, he could have stuck out better at the Carnival of Venice with his face more like a skeletal facade, foreboding horns like some ancient thing — and more. ( dressed for the wrong occasion, wholly. )

His neck cranes and a disgruntled, undignified huff follows tersely after. "Hawthorns — are symbolic of love, protection, an' resilience." The eld knowledge of flowers and plants cuts in. Was that his something sad? Was it so sorrowful that both of them were without these things? Exhausted, without love, protection, or resilience.

Hands brace atop both knees upon easing himself up. Some joints crack, stiff as always. Again, the weather and her more tempered sister, the roiling sea. "I can getcha some water, or d'ya want some tea? Been runnin' low, but still got some lady grey n' chamomile if y'want. Might help the throat with some honey." Voice trailing further into the small kitchenette, he sets out for a cup first — just in case a tall glass of water is still preferred.

He's never actually been met with this much forthright compassion, and it jars him for a moment, sitting on his knees in the sand and feeling it in his throat. Standing, Slisæ lumbers along rather silently behind Adal for someone so drenched and towering, but hovers outside the door frames like a vampire not allowed admission.

Being negligibly off course when traveling through the thin yet sluggishly thick veils between layers of the ‘liminal’ world is undoubtedly enough to have cast him into the ocean rather than the shore as a destination point. Very, very off course ( enough to make him ornery ).

Thank the void for the sopping wet hood that keeps his face and features out of view — worse, more monstrous things have crawled out of the ocean, so he thinks. Slisæ exhales again, the silicate grit remaining before he croaks out a half-hearted rasp, "Lady grey, please. An' I'll take the towel."