Gilded Bay Our boots and our clothes, boys, are all in the pawn

Weird. Creepy. He has heard it all. Does she think it will affect him?

They are just words.

And you cannot harm a wordsmith with words.

"Is that not a waste of time?" Imtiaz questions, tilting his head slowly to one side. An inquisitive songbird, now.

A songbird with snake eyes.

"Why not pursue other things--things that are forever? You will never see these shells again, save in your mind's eye."

The nearest shell is inches from his paw, a tiny, brittle, translucent thing. He steps on it--two quick stomps.

His pad trickles blood onto the sand where it has cut him.

The shell lies in pieces; broken, pathetic pale shards.

"See? That is your idea of treasure. Fragile. Transient."

The smile is gone as he stares at her.

"Why not search for true meaning, instead?"