[No that's normal for him. No shame is being not dragonish, says Ted. Quite the opposite, really. He's never known any good that belonged to them exclusively.

He took her query as a motion to hurry.]

Oh, it's this way! Follow me!

[Then he's off, dashing through the wheat fields of an outlying farm before pounding through cobblestone streets, deftly swerving through the medieval town, giving the citizen no small shock; a werewolf on a tear rarely bodes well. But if Micaiah wants haste, who is he to refuse? Dragons are fast and flighty too, aren't they?

Once the knightly authorities are brought to bear--and gently pacified again--he skids to a stop in front a modestly sized book store.]

Here we are: Scribes and Scripts.

[Why not wax sentimental while he's at it?]

Levy, one dear to me who worked beside me in halcyon days, was the one who made it. A nostalgic pang affects whenever I pass. Well, ladies first. You'll see what I mean in a moment.

[Like most things in Fayren, it's quaint and old-fashioned, as though the wooden shelves were living oaks whose leaves were the shop's namesake. It had an inside almost as natural as the outside. Ted sniffed the air and caught a whiff of birch and ash.]

Cozy place, eh? Well, if you're looking for work, that might be the thing.

[He'd fatefully point to the sign at the front counter: "Book Hunters".]

If ever your greed could produce a good, I think that would be the best avenue.