"Right on, my brother," the peacelover grinned at Anselm's response, as simplistic and quick as it had been. Razekiel raised his hand and flashed the symbol for love briefly, smiling mildly over it before returning to the strumming of his guitar. Anselm seemed legitimately impressed; clearly Razekiel doted on this, though he paused his singing only when Anselm praised him and once more when a second visitor appeared before them.
He recognized her, of course. Kaena's face was hard to forget, though perhaps in his childhood Razekiel had never noticed how grueling and sad her many facial scars and weaves were. Perhaps they had collected over the years; Razekiel knew his mother to be fierce, though the woman had always been kindly and maternal (to some extent) to her own children. He'd ducked out of the way of her rage as a yearling, but now that he'd grown, the dizzied hybrid was mildly pleased to find no hints of anger in her shocked expression. He was, after all, some sort of ironic prodigal child.
"Well, look at you there," he grinned, twisting the guitar back into its former position riding his back. He took a few shameless steps forward, apparently too fried or stupid to remember the acts of respect for elders and leaders, but picked one of very few small, dying flowers from the dust in one sweeping motion and contentedly plucking it behind his mother's ear. Clearly, the son did not realize how little the waning plant fit in such a place. "You haven't aged a day, have you? All the earth's sunlight preserved your beautiful face." He clapped her on the shoulders boldly and smiled. His breath, or what could be smelled of it, reeked of marijuana and oozed slow, lofty words. His movements, of course, were a bit loopy as well. "Sorry, boss. The wind came callin' and I just had to answer the call, man."