He chuckles, deep in his throat, but the usual sinister note has absented itself. "It's a little more involved, but the heavy leather helps. Methinks the young magic-user doth protest too much," he muses. "But if you prefer a crow, then a crow it is." He tucks the paper cone of chestnuts he'd been nursing into the open guitar case laying open before the fish folk band (fish-folk band? fish folk-band??), then rises with Luz on his shoulders, his Omen riding inside the neck of his shirt. The drum-playing fishperson, without missing a beat, nods to them both.

Wesker strides off, bearing Luz as he heads up the Boardwalk, heading toward the Lamp. "The first day of the rest of our lives..." he muses, almost thinking out loud.