Gingerly, Nimona squirms forward through the gap. A few feathers have gotten bent between the rough landing and the thorns; with another grumble, she hops onto Bastion's arm, ruffling herself up into a pink puffball.

"Thanks," she sighs. "I probably coulda shifted out of there eventually, but who knows what this stupid place'll let me turn into."

She sets to work preening her wings.