"Neither are my stories," is the passing reply, books carefully tucked away on their shelves without a care for their order. She lingers on some of the covers, though nothing really catches her eye. Happy endings weren't real; life wasn't some pretty thing, saccharine sweet.

Besides, his imagination was his burden, not hers.

The question is a fair one, she supposes, a snort of a laugh as she considers him. "There's others 'chatting up gods' here?" That sounded like a stupid idea. "The magic of my world is - organizing chaos," is said carefully. "Mages act as conduits, for the inherent power the universe holds. It can be - elegant, at times." Not always.