"I disagree, my ego requires no tending, it's quite healthy on its own."

Riale hides a laugh behind his hand.

"'Anyway. You mentioned wanting to find a place to sleep?'"

"Yeah. Something tells me there should be someplace suitable nearby..."

He looks around.

"Such as maybe right over there."

"Not interested in searching around more? You might be able to find a place with a better view."

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Ah, but to constrain yourself with doubt is to trap yourself from all other possibilities that might be available!"

"The irony has not escaped me, yes."

"I will accept a view that is merely stunning if it gets me to bed faster and therefore in the air tomorrow earlier," says Riale. "I've been doing really well at waking up one spirit per day and I'd hate to break my streak this soon."

"Fair enough," shrugs Kastimund.

"'How have you been travelling so quickly?'"

"The magic in this world's really stable! They have things called swoops that fly people around very quickly."

"'Oh, excellent. How good are you at putting things into the book?'"

Kastimund sighs threatrically. "It's a dreadful tragedy, Saerith, he only has two imperfect pages in his book!"

Saerith looks at Riale and grins.

He grins back.

"May I try putting you in the book?" he asks. "I'm afraid I probably won't be able to make it perfect. Yet."

"'Hey, you've got time to manage it. Yeah, go ahead, book me.'"

He smiles.

He flips to an empty page and puts his hand on it and looks at Saerith and thinks about air, and sign language, and this balcony, and the market. He thinks he has a pretty good sense of this spirit's personality.

On the page is a life-like Saerith, sitting cross-legged on an undrawn floor, surrounded by pages and pages, all covered in writing. One of the spirit's hands is at the shackle fastened painfully at the throat, trying in apparent vain to tug the cruel shackle off. The other hand is writing something on what looks to be the latest page, just barely begun. A dark grimace of determination mars Saerith's face, lit by the swirling grey-yellow glow leaking out from behind the shackle.

Kastimund looks at the page.

"That reminds me, actually!" He retrieves the set of papers from his jacket. "Here you go, these are yours, and this is no longer my problem."

Papers go Saerith-ward.