But there's no ship sailing

It feels like a chorus line, in that slightly-sweaty entirely-traumatic absolution-with-a-side-of flash-in-the-pan awkwardness way that you can only find your way into if you know for sure you've actually got a bed to sleep in that night (the bell-bottom blues of costume shucking'll follow him, too) - or rather, not sleep, because the bowing has the interesting side effect of scrambling all your brains.

Together, side by side, in front of the manor, all but armslaced in preparation for a grateful group sigh, Minoth reckons with his odd choice of keepers, and they with their far, far odder choice of kept.