"Are you serious," you grumble, rubbing one of your hornbeds in exasperation. These crazy little wizards are going to strip you hollow, they're so difficult. Apparently potions and magical windows and cold boxes full of bird meat are no problem for magical highbloods, while basic prosocial behavior is a lost art. No wonder you keep having to bully them through every last little gesture of interpersonal affection, though they clearly enjoy one another's regard. You get hold of the Lawfee and haul the small bundle of elbows and knees into your lap. "I am going to die," you say conversationally. "I am going to die here because my liver will swell up and explode from stress toxins, and it will be all your fault, you aggravating pair of swamp goblins. Yes. Yes I will." You get a thumb against the Warden's high, strangely-angled cheekbone and rub in firm circles. "This is what we civilized folk call 'relaxing'!" You tell them, slowly and just a trifle condescendingly, not that anyone, at this point, could judge you. The blueblood makes some sort of awkward, squirmy motion, and you shoot her a stern look, the kind that makes unruly novitiates stop horsing around with the slip bags. "If you give me any more trouble so help me I will eat your sword," you tell her, still working on the Warden, who has mostly stopped flailing at you. You probably won't. You will probably run away and cry. But it never hurts to bluff.