From within their private lounge, Kesha gave a soft yawn, leaning slightly against Aramith's side as she poked a grape toward his mouth.
"Do you think he practices that speech in the mirror?"
"He looks like he argues with his reflection daily," Aramith muttered in all honesty. Mozrael nearly choked on her juice.
The first items were… unimpressive.
A rusted sword said to be wielded by a forgotten hero. A cracked music box that played one lullaby in three different off-key tones. A slightly glowing ring whose only magic was repelling small insects, though the man tried to make it sound majestic.
Kesha didn't even lift a finger.
"Mozrael," she said, eyes half-lidded, "how much would it take to buy all these chairs and throw them at the auctioneer?"
Mozrael blinked. "Uh, I think that might be—"
"Expensive?" Kesha finished. "Then I won't. Yet."
