It’s worse that he’s safe. 

Dolce fusses over the straightness of his vest, and no one who’s not a sheep can hear above the noise of a healthy debate culture, but his breathing is hardly professional. Might even be construed as a little huffy. At what? Of whom? No one will question him. Tonight he will be provided with ample quarters, a decent meal, and the respect of the Endless Azure Skies.

He is supposed to say something here. How did it go? A little veiled injoke, wisecrack, something for the benefit of the audience? To communicate what wavelength he is on? Some of the Summerkind here, in the command center, do look rather advanced in days. If they don’t hear him now, then, they may hear him soon, because Liquid Bronze will surely give him more opportunities to speak his mind.

He grips the fabric tightly, clutching an inside pocket where a letter goes.

A distant explosion shakes the ground beneath his hoofs.

He nods, just slightly, to 20022. And he can say nothing.

It’s worse that he’s safe.