Truth be told, outside of the dragons themselves, Julie does not have much interest in being in the Nether. It's nothing against them, really; she just has a bunch of other fish in her fryer, and this detour is taking time away from them. But if she's going to dragged off to yet another reclusive kingdom whose surprise invite she's not really allowed to decline, then she's going to use it like a true vacation. Setting be damned. Possibly literally.
She's spent quite a bit of time babysitting the dragon hatchlings, but that still leaves a number of hours to occupy herself. She's gone shopping, she's tried some foods, she's lounged in the magma.
The Abraxas equivalent of a trashy romance novel sounds like a perfect addition to the week.
Draped the wrong way across one of the reading chairs, Julie has had her nose tucked into a worn novella that she thinks might have been written in Thorne -- it's the story of a human woman who falls in love with a Draconae market seller when he takes just a drop of blood as payment because she's been thrown out of her family with nothing to her name. Followed by fifty pages of just hardcore pile-driving.
Julie's concentration is broken by the constant little chorus of wonder coming from a nearby shelf. She looks up, burgundy lips pursed in annoyance, to spot the offender.
Christ on a pogo stick. She's never seen anyone look simultaneously so nerdy and also so much like a fucking yokel. Well, that could be the Solvunn-brand couture, but if someone pointed him out as a peasant in a period flick, she would buy it. But she would also buy him as a nerd stuffed in a locker in an eighties movie.
"Can you like, shut the fuck up?" Her tone is light, considering the actual words. "Some of us are tryin' to read."
library
She's spent quite a bit of time babysitting the dragon hatchlings, but that still leaves a number of hours to occupy herself. She's gone shopping, she's tried some foods, she's lounged in the magma.
The Abraxas equivalent of a trashy romance novel sounds like a perfect addition to the week.
Draped the wrong way across one of the reading chairs, Julie has had her nose tucked into a worn novella that she thinks might have been written in Thorne -- it's the story of a human woman who falls in love with a Draconae market seller when he takes just a drop of blood as payment because she's been thrown out of her family with nothing to her name. Followed by fifty pages of just hardcore pile-driving.
Julie's concentration is broken by the constant little chorus of wonder coming from a nearby shelf. She looks up, burgundy lips pursed in annoyance, to spot the offender.
Christ on a pogo stick. She's never seen anyone look simultaneously so nerdy and also so much like a fucking yokel. Well, that could be the Solvunn-brand couture, but if someone pointed him out as a peasant in a period flick, she would buy it. But she would also buy him as a nerd stuffed in a locker in an eighties movie.
"Can you like, shut the fuck up?" Her tone is light, considering the actual words. "Some of us are tryin' to read."