The Knight is up immediately. Their own desire to ignore the knock is immense, but the fear of noise rousing Myla outweighs that. It might be someone with a meal, too. They've requested food and ingredients, and assume that the residents of Dirtmouth know better of when they should be brought.

Lemm is outside when they crack open the door.

They freeze, staring, a circle of black against a backdrop of whites and reds.

Relief and irritation rise. They knew he was fine. It's good to see. Why is he here. They don't want him--anyone--here.

But he is, all the way from the City, to check on them. Because he cares. Because they both do, and they're friends, and he likely was concerned.

Dirtmouth is buffeted by its usual winds. They're not going to leave him outside.

They lift their paw to the base of their mask, shhh, and open the door just wide enough to let him inside.

The house is full of lumafly lights, the Delicate Flower one still hanging awkwardly from the center of the ceiling. Some they bought, most they stole, a few they somewhat did both when Elderbug protested their plucking them from the lightpoles outside in the more distant streets of the town. There's a torch burning in the middle of the room, alight with red flame.

A head pops up from the nest on the couch to eye the new visitor.

Not Myla. Grimmchild, resting next to her. They mrrr quietly before sinking back into the blankets.