"...I feel like I'm in the midst of a fever dream," Criswell returns, his dark eyes only subtly flitting in Corrie's direction and his words just a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene. Zealots are always a little intimidating and these zealots have sharp little claws and pointy beaks. And besides...one never knows.

Really.

His fingers twist anxiously together in his lap and he adds dully, "Maybe it would make more sense if we spoke chicken." Though, he very much doubts that.