"Funny how they look so different than back home, but still sorta the same, huh?"

Hector speaks up softly from where he stares skyward, his own drink mostly empty. He's settled his arms atop his knees, his own tail practically in a tangle with Capochin's own, long since having caught it and latched on. He's full, had a long evening with the others freshly-freed from the opera, and pleasantly buzzed to forget the aches of sitting on the ground... but, no matter how he tries, he can't slow the thoughts that still race through his head in any quiet moment he finds himself in.

"Ain't none of the same con-steal-ay-shuns as there were back home, that's for sure," he adds. "Some of 'em almost look the same, though. I ever tell yew about the ones Mitty told me she made herself?"