"What is this?" It's half a growl behind his head, enough to unnerve most though nowadays, and to those familiar; clearly just her typical pattern of speech and tone. She's plucking at the back of his shirt, surprisingly careful with those claws, until a tag peeks over with her soft but incessant pulling. "Identification?" It looked annoying.
-Fen
“wha - ACK!!” lance’s squeals & bodily tenses ; the jolt of her claws ghosting over the skin at the nape of his neck sending gooseflesh skittering right down his spine. he’s not afraid — not in the slightest. they’d long since passed that stage in their strange space mom - space son relationship they’ve got going on between them. he trusted her. explicitly. still, that didn’t stop the primal survival instincts from kicking in. crow, he still flinched when slav used his body as a vantage point — or a hiding post. a second ticks & lance swings his weight from one foot to the other, trying to crane his neck enough to see just what she was pecking at. & then, he barks out a choked laugh - literally given the fact that her hands were still poised at his throat. “no. well. sort of? it’s to yanno, tell people who buy it what size it is, and where it was made. it’s an earth thing.” he says with a shrug. though, given the wear & tear he’s put this shirt through, he’s impressed it’s still intact, he’ll have to look later to see if it still says anything, or if the carbon’s rubbed off. “uhhh, madre? could you like, i dunno, relax those murder mittens of yours now? i’d really appreciate it.”
