Aria was about to comment on the Phoenix named Phoenix subject (there were plenty of things named after what they were, she imagined he might be surprised if he thought about it) when he commented on her spell. She frowned.<br/><br/>â€œThe name is used as an identifier for your form, something the spell can attach to. If there was another person named Phoenix, it wouldnâ€™t matter unless they looked, spoke, and were as obnoxiously demanding and demeaning as you. Donâ€™t worry. You are safe from everyone but me and my precious little spells.â€  Her voice was solid and mildly derisive, and her face was blank but for her eyes that, had anyone been paying attention to them, would have shown that the comment stung.<br/><br/>â€œGoodnight, Phoenix,â€ Aria replied and walked through a small door on the side of the alter. Despite the age of the church, none of the stairs creaked or groaned as she went up them. Her footsteps were too light.<br/><br/>Later that night Aria crept back down into the church, silent as a breeze. She hoped that Phoenix was asleep, or would at least be pretending to sleep, as she made her way across the floor to place a pile on the edge of his bench. A blanket (one of the clean ones she used for her own bedding that only had a few moth holes in it) made up the bottom of the leavings. On top of that she placed  a wedge of cheese and a piece of bread (both wrapped up for protection) and a filled waterskin.