Biscuit turns his gaze away from his mistress, whiskers quivering as he surveys the people -- yes, watching them. "They can make images of us," he informs Asmodia, not bothering to explain about the differences in magic -- lots of magic-users don't have familiars, and he's not the least bit bothered by the question of how she could be so ignorant. "She says you should make yourself look different."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" snaps Asmodia, increasingly frustrated by the demands of this strange place and these people who can't even speak directly to her. "I can't -- nothing is working for me, I can't seem to do any of my magic and I can't even stop telling you about it --!"

The hand not supporting Biscuit makes an abrupt, angry little gesture, fingers clenched into the fabric of her cloak. Biscuit turns to look at it, then pokes Asmodia rather hard in the collarbone with his nose. "Then put that on," he says very practically.

Asmodia rolls her eyes and holds it up to show him better. "It's --" she starts to explain that it's the wrong cloak, but then she actually looks at it...and seems to wilt a little. "Oh," she says in a small, embarrassed voice. "It is. I'm going to -- uh. Right."

And with that, she sets Biscuit down (he immediately goes limp and flops on his side, to her mild consternation), whips the cloak around her shoulders, and abruptly stops looking anything other than human.