Omen and Sleeper both keep all their attention on the newcomer as he finally crests the deck. While some nuances of the other man's expressions are lost on Illarion, too subtle to ((feel)) at any distance, the shrike yet notes how little effect the cold's having on him...and the depth of that sudden white-knuckled discomfort.

Illarion doesn't react. His Omen does, drawing herself up in a posture of alertness with antennae quivering and feathers slicked.

He saw something. How much and how clearly were the questions, though not any the shrike will broach openly.

Yet. Anyone who could see him in full deserved to be warned of the risks they ran, but that's not a conversation to be had while one of them's soaking wet.

"Nearer than perhaps we guess, but still out of reach." He shifts himself off the railing, backing up one step, two, until one heel bumps against the opened crate he dragged over. More pants and a few shirts are hung over the edges, oddly neat in their arrangement. "It is a great deal to take in, all at once, and you having only just lost your tentacles.

"You are well enough to dry yourself and dress?"