[ Cellar's wounded pride is written all over her face, trying and failing to massage away a headache, watching the stranger to figure out whether she should put away the whole shadow or just wear it at her back like a sword. Wouldn't make too much of a difference, should she need to make skewered flying bedroom decor, but it feels more comforting to feel it there than to look out for usable shadows that are projected … well, everywhere. Thank god. ]

Are you gonna ask me?

[ Matching her tone, Cellar pushes herself on her feet, takes a second to realign her balance, and wipes the cigarette ash still clinging to random spots of her hand. Gross. ]

Saltburnt. That's the name of this place. It's like, in England, but not. [ A pause. Before she continues: ] Are you used to weird magic bullshit or not really?