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<span class="mu-i">Fingers riffle through the racks, books are searched, titles read aloud. The Whispermarket operative with the faint trace of citrus to his scent smiles, somehow, through his mask - or perhaps it's simply the implication of a smile, somehow conveyed through the hood and the cloth meant to hide his visage.
He doesn't move much, glancing left as Mimic's quiet incantation glides off of his ward-shield, then right as the wood sprouts branches and flowers take hold, fed by the vital essence of the biter disabled in the corner.
Then, as if releasing a pent up breath, he gives a little nod, winks at Mimic (Or is it just the idea of a wink? A flash of green eye, an impression of conviviality) and between one heart-beat and the next he has a long thin blade in his hand...</span>
