There are, at last count, one hundred million things that someone could say to you after sitting down across from you. It doesn’t do a body any good to try and count them all in the time between sitting and listening, but there’s a natural instinct for it, no? A wish of the heart. To know what is about to be said, so you can get a head start on what you ought to say to that, and never lose your footing. But if you actually try it, and they say something you’d never expect, then you lose your footing anyway from shock, and you’re worse off than when you started. Dolce is a wise and learned sheep, at least as far as chefs go. He gets to experience the full, undistracted measure of this refreshing and confusing surprise. “A pleasure to meet you; my name is Dolce, chef.” And a wise and learned chef gets his bearings during a pleasant greeting. “And, I beg your pardon; operation? I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean.” Attention from the authorities in Beri often coincided with unexpected loss of property, unexpected gains in employment, and unexpected trips up the mountain of indeterminate length. Not so much polite conversation and a willingness to simply [i]talk[/i] through a tricky problem. But you know? It had been just as many years since the last time he’d dealt with such authorities as he’d had a real conversation with someone as wooly as him. Perhaps that was why he felt so oddly glad to see a reflection that wasn’t his, despite the circumstances. “My apologies, I am only a few years new to Beri, and I’m sure there are some things I’ve yet to learn. Which makes it quite difficult to know what I don’t know. Do you think you could tell me a little more of your work, and we can see if that rings any bells? And,” he glances to the stovetop, where steam wafts from a (carefully silenced) kettle. “Would you care for some tea?” [Rolling to [b]Speak Softly:[/b] 5 + 6 + 3 = [b]14[/b] Dolce forges a Bond with 20022. Asking: [i]What does 20022’s job entail?[/i]]