Fairspell Meadow trying to find tomorrow and ease in, til you dive in

The sneer did not disappear as she spoke, but did not grow by any measure, either. Désolé d'entendre ça, he said dryly, then transitioned out of his beloved langue des mères. Yes, I can dig. What are you digging for, madame?

Still, even as he asked, Robespierre lent himself to the task, grimacing slightly as his coat—usually kept pristine—became spattered with earth, his forelegs especially dirtied by the task.

The monotony of it was soothing, though, and he felt himself lulled into somewhat of a meditative state as he awaited her response. Easy enough to churn, over and over, muscles burning (not unpleasantly) from the effort.