It's a demeanor Celehar is familiar with - it was him, not so long ago, trying to stand on limbs that fought him, still carrying the remembrance of exhaustion and pain that had smudged in his mind like chalk.

"Take your time," he says. He is as well, slowly unfolding himself from his seat, and rising. He takes the time to resettle his coat, smoothing away wrinkles and frowning over the water stains that layer the patched material, sighing and dismissing it. Not much he can do about that except take it off to dry, and that will have to wait. Then his hands come up briefly to his braid, and his lips pin together in dismay at the state of it. He does his best to smooth down the flyaway curls, and looks back to Sunny.

Maybe it's the lingering remembrance of Frieda's hug which spurs him, but watching Sunny's awkward movement, he acts on a momentary impulse, reaching out to lay a steadying hand on the young man's shoulder. His grip isn't tight or heavy, just there.