Ember stooped pitifully near the fire, gently poking sticks into it every now and then, thankful for the fact, that for once, it was not something sustained entirely by magic.

He was positively drained, and probably couldn't manage more than a sputtering, and uncontrolled burst of pitiful flames had he been in the position to be trying that.  The sticks were a perfectly tractable, and entirely practical, (if undignified) option, and he was very thankful for it being available.

"It sure beats sitting on the beach, in this insufferable sun all day.  At least there'd be shade... Maybe we'd get lucky, and find a lake to get the salt off us.  I can positively FEEL my skin puckering up like a priest of chastity at a bacchanal.  We wont even discuss my hair..."

He turned to the 'very obviously a practitioner of the necromantic arts', appraising his tattered but still very apparent costume, and spoke in a hushed, private tone so that only the recipient would hear.

'I wouldn't dahling-- We have the superstitious types in our number.. The last thing we need, is a coup because somebody's dead husband is shambling around outside mucking out a latrine. If it were just us dahling, I wouldn't mind, but we must think about these things, given our circumstances. ...I'd rather not end up in a fire... Speaking of-- I never made your acquaintance-- I'm ember-- Transfigurist, and illusionist-- I specialize in fashion. ...Despite appearances... I can tell from your attire what your specialty is dahling--- I've designed similar numbers for some of my clients-- but I'm at a disadvantage for your name--"