[ Mission accomplished, he's off on a roll, and she settles in beneath the high like a warm and heavy blanket to enjoy her spoils. Her face twists amusedly at the concept of a man chatting away with himself through a marionette. She knew of bards and fools to take up similar tricks of the voice, but if she could picture anyone doing such nonsense, Richie would be no stretch of the imagination. ]

[ As he bolts upright mid-story, the pillows shift, and Sandra half sinks into the void he leaves behind him. It earns as much of a chuckle as his strange and passionate story. ]

Of course you would dream of a career talking to anything with ears from the moment you knew what words were.

[ And of course, if he was shit at them from the start, his dedication had done him well. Now, he possesses a voice she's sure could read the Book of Rites and she could still remain enthralled. It really is a lovely thing, at least when not being used for evil, and so freely given. ]

[ She falls quiet for a moment, lying behind him, before extricating herself and finding his chest with a hand to shunt him back down into place, returning the pillows to their proper shape. Those flittering recollections of her visage and figure had never crossed his mind unnoticed, but they were largely disregarded, never unwelcome but never the sort of thought she went delving for either. Now, however, they seem to have made themselves harder to ignore. Harder with these borrowed pillows and shared herb, harder with every visit in which he made the effort to sneak her in some small comfort of the outside world, more and more frequent. There's pity in it, there never isn't... But it's nice. ]

[ Her hand stays put as she settles in closer and her brow furrows, trying to parse the concept with... marginal success. ]

Did anyone ever talk back? Or did you just spend your days talking into the wind and hoping someone would listen?

[ How anyone could make money off of this is beyond her. Also, what is a duck? She has many pressing questions. ]