The lapse in conversation suits Seoraj well enough; he redirects his chatter in a low, amicable voice to Althalus (who he promptly nicknames, as well, rolling out my lord with rich amusement at an animal that seems temperamentally suited to his mistress) as he finishes his work.

He takes to permanence, by the look of him - solid as the mountains he was bred in. (Maybe that's all it is. A look.)

"Those should last him a while," he says, when he's done, straightening, wiping his hands off on his apron. "Shouldn't give him any trouble."