(Unprompted) @earthenarchon asked:
"Excuse me," he said, hands clasped behind his back as he slowly strolled in the shadow of the towering mahogany bookshelves. "What sort of poetry do you have in your collection? I'm looking for something of the old laureates, anything will do.”
“Hm? Oh, hello sir. Poetry? Why, I would be remiss in my duties as a librarian if I didn’t point you towards the works of one Jean-François Deshaies, or at least that was his pen-name long ago.” Lisa chirped happily. Gesturing for him to follow, she lead him to a small section of the library that rested near the door to her personal office. Next to it, a tall shelf of the same mahogany wood as the rest of them stood tall, and seemingly well cared for.
A gloved hand ran along the spines, before a little ‘Ah!’ of recognition, and the book was pulled down with the same care someone would show towards a fragile artefact,
“Here is my favorite. It’s a first edition, and one I’m rather fond of myself. You seem like a man capable of appreciating literature, so I’m trusting you with it.”












