( Licyn blinks, hand on the doorframe. Or on as much of it as he can still hold, with the doors pushing themselves shut on his hindquarters, near to catching clothing and queue in their tight-knit final click.

Then he chuckles, shaking his head, tossing a hand before him to dismiss the idea. )

They're not going to appreciate any of mine, love, if they don't enjoy yours with a courtesan. More for the love making, myself, less for the loving. Romance, ( he says, eyes flitting to the ghosts hovering around in their noisy chatter, to the state of the human-smelling man at the pot (alive, at least, he can be thankful that someone living is in here and it's not just the dead, even if the dead haven't been as strong as ghouls in his own world) and sidled... as much away from the ghosts as he could be, within the kitchen's design. ) romance is for tale-tellers and the dreamers. I've dabbled in the one, avoid being anything like the other.

( The noxious scent of whatever is coming out of that cauldron like pot has him grimacing, the blend of scents bizarre. )

What do they have you failing to cook?