Thoth has barely paid the puppies much attention, and only looks at them properly when Tris introduces them. Shepherd dogs… Basque. Pastor Vasco in the Spanish, Euskal Artzain Tzakurra in the Basque; no scientific name, as it is not yet recognised or classified by any major kennel organisation on Earth. Standard golden-yellow colouring, facial features and proportioning imply purebred, which would make sense if they were a present from Tristan’s grandfather. Approximately four months in age. Healthy. Thoth can only guess what type of trouble they’re in with the cook, but from the prominent mouth-oriented behaviour supposes it relates to chewing inedible substances or consuming edible ones, possibly both.
He watches them both play for a moment, not bothering to tune in to the excitable garbled nonsense they’re yapping at each other, and a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth – but just as quickly vanishes when Tris makes his request. Thoth has never been able to operate his powers properly when Tarquin is around or after he’s just seen him, and his little trick of drying out clothes is actually a fairly complex trick for a water-bender. The difficulty is not in the drying out, but in the drying out only of the external skin, hair and garments while leaving the internal body well hydrated. A decidedly worried look passes over his face but, obligingly, he frowns and chews the inside of his cheek in concentration. The water on his clothes shimmers for a moment, and some of it hesitatingly pulls away from his shirt – leaving it damp rather than dripping – and for a moment he feels a spark of hope… but then Tarquin’s face, his terrible I’m going to get you face, it flashes to the forefront of his mind and his concentration breaks. The little water he’d managed to siphon off crashes to the floor, dampening the rug. Thoth shrugs and shakes his head, feeling his cheeks burning again.
It only gets worse from there. The prince’s suggestion that they go for a ride makes it slightly difficult to swallow, and leaves a bad taste on his tongue. “I – can’t,” he says quietly, choosing to look at the puppies instead of at Tris. “I can’t leave the castle grounds. Your grandfather’s spell.”
No further elaboration is necessary – Tristan should know about the safety precautions his family has put in place because of the Aurans, and why they’re necessary. Thoth can’t hate Mallos or Arthur for the imposing security, but there is little to like about being unable even to run away from Tarquin’s gang. He can run, but not far. And Tarquin knows it.
He nods decidedly more enthusiastically to the sleepover suggestion which feels, from every angle, like a good idea. Nobody’s going to come after him with Tris around. Nobody ever does. He jerks his head, indicating that they should move on, and slowly starts to lead the way back to his quarters. He doesn’t consider Nimueh; Thoth traipses back into his room covered in a variety of unusual (and often pungent) substances on a regular basis, and if he spared it a thought he would simply think that she wouldn’t view it as out of the ordinary. Mercifully for Tristan, they don’t see her at all. Thoth pauses before pushing open the door and eyes the puppies.
“No chasing or scaring anyone,” he informs them sternly in their language. “Or I’ll make you wait outside.”
The room is much the same as it had been when Arthur had visited, with a lot less smoke and a few more mouldy petri dishes lying around. Thoth goes over to one of his laundry piles, successfully picks out a towel and starts rubbing his hair.
“Do you ever – I mean, does your magic ever – ” he frowns at the towel, which should be a completely alien object. He shouldn’t even own a towel. What water-bender needs a towel? “Does it ever – not work, when people are – when they – ” Say things. Pull faces. Laugh.
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