"So, uh, is magic different where you come from?" Ffion asks, leading the way up familiar steps towards the teahouse. "Not like that. But maybe a bit like that." He pauses, then adds, "thank you." "You're welcome," she says with a grin. As they approach the teahouse, a familiar feeling catches Inric's interest. He eyes the gaudily-dressed individual sitting at the central table. Their identity is unmistakeable, even before they open their mouth and speak in draconic. "Ah, I see you found the place." "Nazarchtharin." "Welcome back," Ffion says brightly. "Do you know each other? How nice! I'll bring some tea." "And two fried puffs," the dragon calls, switching languages effortlessly.