Intentional is a difficult word. It’s a word of purpose and desire, and discerning it from the outside in is about as difficult as counting the spoons in a drawer without opening it. Not impossible, if you know a thing or two about spoons, you’ve taken a careful survey of the room, remembered when you last washed the dishes, and correctly ascertained which of your recent houseguests prefer to eat their ice cream with a fork. But difficult. Let it not be said that Dolce approached a drawer imprudently.

Fortunately for the ongoing conversation, much could be done with the facts at hand, and the trust that the Vasilia he knew wouldn’t bring them up without purpose.

“I think,” Dolce ambles along with the idea. “You could ask the same question about the Manor, no? I don’t remember the Majordomo ever giving less than his best for his job. He was the first one awake and the last one off duty, every day, and never grew tired of his work. The guard dogs too. Perhaps they lazed about on the odd sunny afternoon, but they were no less alert and on-task about it. What did they have that I didn’t that made it worthwhile to them? What point did they see in it all?”

“If I wanted to know that,” and he most assuredly did. “Then the first thing to do would be to hear it in their own words. No chance of doing that now, I’m afraid. But if the Manor is like the Skies, then the Skies are like the Manor. And it’s not [i]impossible[/i] to speak with the Azura. Or at least listen to them.” But difficult. Most assuredly difficult. A whole silverware set while blindfolded sort of difficult.

But if the Skies are like the Manor, then the Manor is like the Skies. Maybe the answer to one would share some territory with the other?