The Brucolac strides for the fire. Ishtar, too, needs warmth, though she seems sturdier than her brother.

When he looks over at Saralegui, it's with a breath of frustration. "Against your shoulder. Hold his head and keep him close. Have you never held a child before? Is kissing babies not something politicians do where you come from?"

There's fear in his voice, not just anger. A kind of near-hysteria which he's forcing aggressively down. Ishtar whines and he hugs her tighter, shushes her; reaches out his free hand into the fire until the metal is warmed out of its unnaturally cold state. He tests it against his own cheek, not wanting to burn her, then cups the back of her head with the artifically heated gauntlet.

"They're quick," he says, his voice quiet and shocked, though he means it to be an explanation instead of a confession of amazement. "Alive, I mean." Not like him.