Placing a paw upon the cool stone sill, Tine gazes out the Archive’s window to look upon the setting sun. All hints of orange have disappeared from the sky, leaving but bare hints of dusky pink fading to blue behind the willow trees. Though this is a sign of the late hour, it does not occur to him; his thoughts are elsewhere, lost to even himself, until he hears the telltale click of claws on slate, signaling the entrance of another. Still, his periwinkle eyes remain half-focused, flitting over the shrubs just beyond the window, abundant with flowers and herbs. The twinkle of a firefly catches his attention for only a moment.
“Tine.” The deep resonance of Methestel’s timbre is unmistakable. Only when his name is repeated a second time — this time in a slightly more threatening tone — does he turn his head, though.
“Methestel,” he acknowledges with a small, but reverent, incline of his head.
“Corrisix tells me you’ve not left the Archive in days. You look weary. Your dedication is…” The larger Vayron hesitates, searching for a word. It’s not hard to discern by the wrinkle of his muzzle and the curl of his lip that the one he chooses is not the one that he means. “…admirable, but we cannot afford for you to die here. Do not make me call for Jovian to remove you from this place.”
The Runner arranges the most polite smile he can muster across his face, placid and disarming as he tilts his dark head. “Please, Methestel, you need not worry for my well-being. I assure you, you will see me at breakfast in the morn. I have reason to believe I am close to what I seek, I merely was resting before my final efforts.”