"I won't try," Yseult replies, obviously assuaged by the knowledge that he considers her much more marriageable than a dolphin. She is laughing a little, the sort of fond chuckle that's more breath than sound, and follows the direction of his pull, pushing herself up half onto his chest where she can kiss his cheek or jaw or something in that general region.

"Go back to sleep," she urges, with that laugh in her voice and kissing him again, "I know it's my fault you're awake, but I'm not debating philosophy at this hour. Sleep."