"Rodents are people, you ass," Next he'll be claiming she isn't a person, because of their differences. This kind of bigotry is always the same; you start with one thing, and then it's ten other things trailed after, like ducklings, "Personally, I don't eat people. Nobody should eat people!"

Her scribe had been a dormouse, actually. With a pang, Quintet wonders how old CV is doing these days. She would just have to hope that his career hadn't been dented by association with her.

"Oh my god, why is this even a conversation I have to have? You're clearly not a child, you should know better! Haven't they invented manners where you're from, yet?" But she sits, still agitated enough to want a bath, but too wary to take her eyes off him. It's not his fault— or, not entirely. She's had a hard time of it lately. She's cold, and hungry, and lost in a strange place. She's looking at him now and seeing how scruffy he seems, his fear and placating gestures, and— Quintet sighs, and cringes down into a half-crouch; in an ape the gesture would be like pulling her hands down her face.

"Oh my god, I'm turning into my mother."