To be fair to Ser Frowns-a-lot over yonder, Samson wouldn't want to babysit himself either, he thinks. Poor kid.

Speaking of poor kids, Noelle might wish she followed her instincts: there's an unusual scent about this man, like meat or milk on the verge, when you can't quite tell whether or not it's gone off. More of an impression of a scent, really, tickling at some reptilian part of the brain. Luckily, it isn't long before he settles back into his own space, his mouth gone crooked in low-key amusement.

"I'm no mage, am I? How d'you know?"