well any man with a microphone
can tell you what he loves the most
can tell you what he loves the most
There is a sense he gets, as they walk beneath the grand arching ceilings of the castle (too shadowed now to see the stars and moons painted long ago between the wooden beam) that both mares were more in their thoughts than they were with him in the capitol.
It doesn’t much affect his vanity - that was impervious to most things - but August’s curiosity sharpens as he listens to them both. Each of them had a right to their privacy, of course, but he was in the business of information, and there was never an amount too small to be useful.
He is not surprised to hear that Camillia came from a world of abundant magic; many of those new to Novus had. What interests him more is her claim of leaving no one behind, a thing he found difficult to believe. More than that, anyone fresh from a world and with no connections was someone worth keeping an eye on.
“Novus’s gods have been called stingy and more,” he says with a smile, “but in time your magic may return. What was your gift? If I may ask.” He makes his expression malleable and soft as beaten gold, then, nothing more than mild curiosity - but as the winged mare looks to the library, his silver eyes are thoughtful.
“It certainly can,” he says of her comment about the tour, and doubles back down the righthand hallway, through a wide doorway and into the room, with its cozy dark walls and wide bookshelves. There is the hint of lemon and antiseptic in the air, from beyond the room where the sick-beds are, and a few long bookshelves groaning under the weight of tomes of various ages. August leans against the doorway and glances at Camillia, gesturing with his muzzle toward the books in invitation to look closer, before turning his gaze briefly on the big warrior. “Aye, Katniss is right. Stories about the wonder of Dawn’s library spread far beyond this continent.”
@Camillia @
