Constance could not help but reach out a hand to poke a finger at the bulbous white body of the creature. It was so tall she needed to crane her head up to meet the two black round ... eyes? Tall as d'Artagnan or Porthos, she had to guess, although broader than even the latter.

Her eyes went wide when her finger pressed into its body with only a limited resistance, the texture smooth as silk yet too solid against the tip of her finger for all that it almost appeared to be full of air like a bladder blown up and tied off like a farmchild's toy.

She took the glass when prompted, drinking obediently while watching it over the rim. When she had drained a good measure of the cup, she had to ask, "You just wander about offering to help?"