A flash of pale-eyed wonder grips Javert's face at the introduction (what a high-society sort of name!) and, equally so, at the macarons. How they retain their shape and defy soaking up the water around them like a sponge is an impossibility that hardly registers.
Blandly, and feeling wholly inadequate beside a splendid creature like Rue, he says, "I am only Javert. No titles or courtesy required for me, as well."
The shark hasn't forgotten that Javert must eat, too. In the man's large fist, the shark deposits a cloth-bound bundle, and inside is a thick wedge of rustic cheese wrapped in wax paper, a silver spoon dulled with use, and a lidded cup filled with stew, meant to pair with the dark bread, of course. His brow deepens, then, cragged with melancholy and a pinched, implacable feeling. He slides the rest of the way down the grotto wall until his seat fits flush against the ground, long legs bent into a crouch in front of him.
His stomach growls in protest, ears flattening.
"Pardon me, Rue," he addresses, awkward without a courtesy title. "It strikes me that I could do with a meal. This... place. This land. Folkmore, the Fox-Woman told me." He gestures roundly to the shark, the grotto, the murky ocean 'air' at large. "It has unseated me. The sea-creatures are too kind, the air is water, and I have thrown my good, practical sense and any semblance of manners downriver. I have been remiss in thinking clearly at all for some hours, now. Perhaps I must."
Must what? He stops short there, unable to finish the thought as his loosely-wrapped bundle falls open upon the floor. He is likely to follow Rue's lead with whatever they tell him, his head swimming with too many and too few ideas at once.
The shark noses him with pity (Pity! Javert is struck thunderously by that word, but the glittering in those wide black eyes most surely reads as pity), and his frown curls into a miserable grimace. He hisses in an undertone to him,
"No, not you, too. Don't you get started with that!"
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Blandly, and feeling wholly inadequate beside a splendid creature like Rue, he says, "I am only Javert. No titles or courtesy required for me, as well."
The shark hasn't forgotten that Javert must eat, too. In the man's large fist, the shark deposits a cloth-bound bundle, and inside is a thick wedge of rustic cheese wrapped in wax paper, a silver spoon dulled with use, and a lidded cup filled with stew, meant to pair with the dark bread, of course. His brow deepens, then, cragged with melancholy and a pinched, implacable feeling. He slides the rest of the way down the grotto wall until his seat fits flush against the ground, long legs bent into a crouch in front of him.
His stomach growls in protest, ears flattening.
"Pardon me, Rue," he addresses, awkward without a courtesy title. "It strikes me that I could do with a meal. This... place. This land. Folkmore, the Fox-Woman told me." He gestures roundly to the shark, the grotto, the murky ocean 'air' at large. "It has unseated me. The sea-creatures are too kind, the air is water, and I have thrown my good, practical sense and any semblance of manners downriver. I have been remiss in thinking clearly at all for some hours, now. Perhaps I must."
Must what? He stops short there, unable to finish the thought as his loosely-wrapped bundle falls open upon the floor. He is likely to follow Rue's lead with whatever they tell him, his head swimming with too many and too few ideas at once.
The shark noses him with pity (Pity! Javert is struck thunderously by that word, but the glittering in those wide black eyes most surely reads as pity), and his frown curls into a miserable grimace. He hisses in an undertone to him,
"No, not you, too. Don't you get started with that!"