"It fits." There are a lot of relevant sayings, probably, but neither of them are feeling a strong need to untangle that reality into little words, pulled apart and laid out to examine. Ilde watches him from her rock, her tail pulling this way and that like she'll never quite be still, the black of her tattoo a shadow on her blue-pearl skin. She seems like something terribly cold, sometimes; unaffected by the chill in the air or the water, made to be a part of it. Distant.

Not so distant she isn't a part of this city as much as Wolfgang; not so far away in and of herself that she isn't woven into the same tapestry of bullshit.