Seoraj keeps him steady, anyway, and resists the immediate impulse to cuff him casually for that profoundly not-funny quip - he rests his hand on the back of Bruce's shoulder instead, shaking his head, smiling in spite of himself. “Me and your elf are having words if he's dropping corpses on my land,” he says, keeping an eye and a hand out to make sure he gets up the stairs all right.

The house is in better shape every time Bruce comes by; it always seems a little more like Seoraj, somehow. Like he's growing into it, or it's growing into him, or some symbiotic thing that involves hammers and expressions of manliness - right now it's warm, dimly lit, and there's a low fire burning down in the grate in the kitchen where he was- well, getting rid of something.

When citizens are being invited to dob each other in is not a good time to be a man who keeps very thorough records.