Prometheus rarely took days off. If he was not holed up in the Department of Mysteries, he tended to find himself closed up in his study. Even in his sleep he was working, dreaming of death and its manufacturing, of stitching and bones. This little outing was his first in weeks. He intended to visit the grocer, and then perhaps the potioneer. Where he ended up, however, was a cozy old bookshop. He'd never frequented this one in particular, but he'd an old fondness for such places.

Over the last couple of hours he had wandered down a long trail of books, grazing through them without much interest. He slowed down when he reached advanced esoterics. It took more time to work through the books, then, parsing the familiar from the drivel from any actual innovation. He was leaned against a shelf with one book in-hand, paging through with only idle interest, when an unfamiliar voice interrupted him.

"Pardon?" Prometheus looked up with a startled blink and partially closed the book. He met a pair of eyes dark as flint and just as sharp. The way she glared at him he thought he must know her, must have somehow offended her... but her face brought no memory to the surface. "This? Probably not, no." Slipping the book shut he turned it over, inspected the cover. It didn't seem all that special a volume... a little dark, perhaps, but nothing wholly scandalous.

Then again, perhaps his perception of scandal was skewed.

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