“Ah, ith kind of a shit month, ain't it?” Absinthe quips as she steps into the house, unwrapping her cloak (one thinner than Ignis’) and either folding it over her hands or hanging it on a coatstand should there be one. She says nothing about Ignis’ changing appearance; they're all going through it these days, after all. Though her own smattering of red scales fades easily into her naturally red skin, her pupils have changed into something more catlike, slitted against the bright snow outside. No wings, for now.

“Ith it… are your knife skills sthill good?” Absinthe pulls down her scarf to speak clearer, revealing a blotchy split lip from newly lengthened fangs. Her hands are gloved, but claws are beginning to poke holes through the fabric at her fingertips. “I'm kind of weird with my nails, actually. My dragon said this could take a few monthst more, can you believe it?”