“I suppose one could keep up at this all day and not get tired,” observed Aillon as he came back from the bar bringing drinks for his group gathered at the table, his tone unclear whether he meant Pantea’s attempt to learn some manner of communication or the art of studying feminine forms, “but Cyrus has a valid point.  If the kittygirls can’t provide an answer, surely some of the unaffected may have heard something.”<br/><br/>Pulling out his chair, he took a seat, allowing his eye to wander across the group of cat girls – Aillon’s lascivious nature did not differentiate between first or second or third or any class of citizens – he was quite friendly in his overtures to all, unless they proved themselves trouble-makers, and at present, the marginalisation of the kittygirls drew his sympathy far more than fat old lawmakers who feared that which they didn’t understand.<br/><br/>“How goes it Artemia?” he asked, once he drew his own mug from his mouth.  Aillon was a rake of man, clad in chain and silk, his raven locks long and unruly, streaming from his head like a dark stream.  He looked over his companions with keen green eyes that never lacked a certain fire.