So it was just for fun? Beck tilted his head to the side at the notion that work could be made fun. By adults. Who he could distinctly remember being against his fun. Reasonably so, given that the boy's idea of fun and games carried the risk of being perpetually maimed or killed. Luring people into barbaric traps was fun, knitting heavy clothes in a heatwave was not.

    A snort of disgust rattled from his throat, and the poltergeist shifted backwards to make way for the bustling peers admiring the scarves. Eventually he slumped defeated to the mud, teeth clicking together irritably as he lay prone next to the group. Frigid paws tucked under his grimy chest out of developing feline habit, although one remained to knead at his sternum as if attempting to alleviate a stubborn aching deep in his lungs. Watching talons flick back and forth to weave thread together was mesmerizing, even if his vision failed to see it clearly. His glowering stare was lulled into a half-lidded daze by the rhythmic movement of the leopardess' claws; for once, the entity's paranoid guard had relaxed, assumedly out of fatigue and was seizing the chance for a rest before kicking back into gear. Voices tossing back and forth in idle conversation went in through one notched ear and out the unscathed other. Beck only reared his head from the ground when Morgan asked him something he didn't catch, and he only gave a lazy shrug before he returned to his sprawling.

    Oh wait, she stopped her knitting. The boy jerked from his entranced state, apparition letting off a faint crackle to check if his control over his manifestation had slipped. Checking over his tangible form  as if looking for any fresh wounds, Beck glanced back at Amunet and her yarnless talons, freckled snout scrunching up in an uncertain emotion. Freed from his self-induced hypnosis, his hostile thoughts were allowed to lash out once more, quickly croaking to no one in particular, "What's the point of scarves in -- in summer? Y'all are gonna overheat and die, or somethin'." A concern he lacked for himself, considering how cold his being constantly was. Anyone that dared to brush up against the poltergeist would undoubtedly notice the fact that he radiated a ghastly chill no matter how intense the sun was that day. Probably reflected the pulseless remains of his ice-cold heart, or probably the result of an absent body for warmth to cling to. Either way, he was convinced he didn't need a scarf or any other ridiculous winter article to keep the frostbite away.