[ Her first response prompts a sort of scoff, half oh, you and half oh, please, but nothing more explicit given that he can't really argue the point. They'd all cottoned onto him annoyingly quickly, after all.

He looks down at Bosky as the beast pants excitedly, wiggling enough to practically be petting himself. He's still looking at the dire wolf (mostly wondering to himself how the creature changes so drastically in battle, when he doesn't appear much more dangerous in camp than Scratch — save for his former habit of nibbling on proffered fingers) when she asks if he needs to feed. It's a small blessing — he doesn't like being caught off-guard, and the question (at least the way she asks it) somehow always does.

At first, it's an easy yes. She's offered her neck to him willingly; why would he ever say no?

(Less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning. He's noticed, of course. It's— almost a shame. The degree to which she's considerate of him, of his needs, is singular. It makes him feel a little sick — that's as close as he can really come to describing the sensation of fondness or the anxiety that a door might be closed that he wants, for better or worse, to be open. But he gets the sense that her song is meant for someone else, too.)

And so, after a moment of thought, he waves a hand in dismissal, the gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]

I couldn't possibly, little duck. Not when you look so pale already.

[ A beat. Thank you for asking hangs on his tongue. Instead: ]

—Who should I wake, after? Is it the wizard's turn, next?