towerofanimus | (no subject)

Characters: England and all you ~~positively insufferable~~ wonderful people!
Setting: Floor Three
Format: Starting with prose/paragraph/whatever you want to call it, but I'll match.
Summary: Apparently the Shakespeare collections he brought with him aren't enough -- actually finding the library in this godawful place was a small blessing.
Warnings: Language, most likely, gosh England that's so improper (also mild suggestive themes, courtesy of him and fem!France)

The kingdom breathed a minor sigh as he turned the page, away from the inquiries of comedians and further into the tale of one 'Cesario'. A stack of books flanked each side of the open copy of Twelfth Night on the table; one stack for the books he had finished (currently, about three), and a stack for the ones that had not yet been opened.

Getting down to this floor had been a nightmare. England didn't mind stairs -- he was no lazy American, after all -- but this was just ludicrous. The place was a scientific disaster and a magical marvel. He was less disturbed by the physical impossibility than he was by the chance of hostile supernatural figures lingering about. It didn't take a mage adept to realize that a place like this could easily have them, just by looking at the way the tower defied physics and logic.

But at least he'd suffered no loss of limb nor any encounters with anyone he'd rather not meet with on the way down here. And, thus far, he'd had no significant disturbances.

Now all he needed to do was just stop thinking about the damn building and relax enough to enjoy what he was reading.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ah a smile. It reassured that he wasn't something completely foreign to her...Though strange nonetheless.

"I am sure he is. Ah, have you been well since your arrival? You haven't had the misfortune of being assigned a job, have you?"

The smile was fleeting, as England's smiles tended to be in dealings with his fellow nations. Not through any displeasure with Canada, of course, but his smiles always seemed to fall with the weight of weariness after not too long a time.

It did help when they were pushed along by a comment with a strange vibe, though. "I have, thank you," he replied courteously, but it was secondary to the matter of the job. "And I've not been told anything of the like, no. I take it the working conditions here are less than favorable."

Sarcastic understatement? Most definitely.

She gave a helpless shrug, not sure how to put it. Less than favorable. She wanted to laugh again.

"I, myself, have been burned a few times, but being who I am makes them just an inconvenient ...but children are put to work as well. Not all of the jobs are dangerous, but none are pleasant."

Maybe it was just the fact that she was a girl, or maybe it was that despite being of some parallel world, she was still his former colony in a way, but the news of the jobs drew a subdued concern from England. Even though he knew first hand the kind of durability and pain tolerance that nations had...he'd never really be able to squash the protective paternal instinct.

"What is your job, if I may ask?" he inquired instead of pressing about the children. He couldn't expect her to know everything, and it was likely that there wasn't anything he could do about it anyways.

She wasn't sure that she wanted to tell him the particulars of it. If he got a job, he could worry about it himself, but she would be fine with dealing with it alone. Her automatic smile just widened.

"I'm a 'maid'. Laundry and the like. Not as dangerous as many other jobs."

His brow knitted in immediate confusion. How had a maid gone about burning herself -- more than once, at that?

Deciding he didn't want to know the answer, England said instead, "I'm glad that the risks are minimal, then. Nation or not, I'd not want you to get hurt." He didn't mind admitting that, at least not to Canada.