The Presidential Suite, Arms Hotel, Sunday Afternoon

"Drink," Karla said, holding out the cup to Saetan, the wound on her wrist already Healing.

Saetan didn't even look up from his packing. Yes, he intended to vanish everything, but unlike certain blonde witches, he didn't see that as a reason to not bother packing everything away neatly. "Karla, we discussed this. I'm fine."

"You're going to be skipping your nap just so you can answer questions from some female who doesn't even believe in Craft and probably thinks you're crazy," Karla grumped. "A little bit of blood will make it so you don't spend the majority of the conversation in blinding agony. Stop being so cursed stubborn and just drink this. Or I'll kick you and tell Jaenelle why."

Why did everyone always feel the need to argue with their Healer. Was it because they thought she wouldn't throttle them? Because that was most certainly not true.

"Not just the young female," Saetan reminded her. "You said I'd be able to meet more of your friends if I didn't fuss this weekend. I didn't--I left all the fussing to you." He sighed. "I'll get no peace from you until I do?" Of course, the question if he'd get peace from her afterwards was also highly in doubt. So rather than argue more, he simply floated the cup over and drank. There were only a few swallows in the glass--enough for him to feel immediately better, but not enough to cause him to fuss at how much she'd given. "There, witchling. Satisfied?"

Karla peered at him, nodding as a bit more color suffused his complexion. "Yes." She gave him a hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for taking care of yourself, Uncle Saetan. I'm very pleased with you. I can write Jaenelle again and tell you you probably aren't going through your second childhood again." She dodged his half-hearted swat and laughed. "I think that was the door," she said, skipping to answer the knock.

[Open for anyone who might have handwavily been invited, by either Karla or Saetan.]