[ Oryx's laugh is loud and brash, his finger waggling in the air (shoulda known). ] You got stones, lady. [ Which is maybe why it doesn't surprise him (because he does know, kind-of. That's half the point.) Tonguing at the ridges of his teeth, he rubs his hands together and coughs, not from the chest but from the back of his throat, as if he's trying to dislodge something. When Oryx spits into his hand a molar hisses and steams in the palm of it, white as bleached bone.

He looks up at her and smiles, a pink-red film covering that row of enamel. ]

You gotta be careful, [ he warns, twisting his head to spit whatever residue out. What lands is black like a clot, as sticky as tar and steams just as angrily. ] Works a bit whack— like, I can't lose bits cause I'm a big thing, not a pick 'n' mix of smaller things, feel me? It isn't dead yet.