To the stairs, then. The edge of his shadow billows low, gently cascades down the steps after him, lingering in particulates like kicked-up silt until entropy scatters it at last. His hand alights on the polished rail and slides along it. The heavy talon ring gleams briefly on his finger.

"There's a girl," he says. "Small, dark hair. An accent like mine." She would hate to be described as small before nearly anything else. "Something of a temper. She fled Thorne when the portals opened. Did you ever meet her before she left?" Eventually, after a nonchalant detour to whatever embellishments present themselves most conveniently—there's that bird, and he doesn't need to look to know the plasterwork hands are there—his gaze lands on Ralston directly. "In person, I mean."