Instead of being terrible
and glorious like the crash of thunder or the din of waves, his voice
was melodious, subtly so, like a soft summer rain affecting the dreams
of a slumbering child as it falls gently on his face. There was a rhythm
that ran through it, like poetry, yet not like average poetry, where the
rhythm is forced and the lines deformed to its ungainly warble, but like
heavenly poetry, where the rhythm is beyond the conscious and into the
subconscious, where it inspires a feeling of quaint remembrance of
itself, as if it were there and not there at the same time. And while it
was soft and pleasant, it was not feminine, for it was a strong
baritone, reinforced by its own superiority and strengthened by its wit
and sobriety.
"Greetings, o' chosen one," he said to me, "I see that you have arrived
safely."
"Yes, quite soundly," I replied, a little taken aback on two fronts:
firstly that he was not angry or indignant that I had attempted to
destroy his kingdom and take his life in the process, and secondly that
he seemed to expect me, as if I were his midday tea partner.
"I am glad, for I would wish you no harm, though your Canitaurian
friends obviously felt no such concern.
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