Kieren had started to draw after ten minutes, sketching out Roarton from the horizon. It's half-done, but it's enough to have brought him back to thinking about that. When the blanket gets lifted slightly, he tugs it off of him, mussing his hair up in the process. He's still feeling worn and tired, and cold tea isn't going to do much good, now is it?

"I don't know what it is that you want me to do," Kieren admits, tiredly. "You can't assume that I'm this fragile that a gust of wind or going outside is going to kill me. I've faced more dangerous things than this place," he says. "I'm not that delicate."