Squish. Squish. Squish.
The tiny man--a little bearded-looking fellow covered in strange clothing (all of it an illusion, ooze crafted atop ooze)--squelched his way along the palace halls. He was beaming at everything, waving at the paintings, a child unaware of how any of this world worked.
He was drawn here--he didn't know why, or how, but he felt he was meant to be here, and he was perfectly content to wander about until he figured it all out.
He tried to blow more bubbles as he wandered through the halls--and to his horror, he extinguished the one he'd carried all this way. A souvenir of sorts--a splash of Fornax's water formed into bubble and then frozen--it melted in his hand, and for the first time, little Wightbeard's face buckled into tears.
He dropped to the ground, frantically trying to scoop the little bits of ice back together, and failed--and cried.
The sound of a crying child (albeit a weirdly hoarse, deep-voiced one) brought Bentley running. His eyes were wide, ears pricked with alarm, his run haphazard as he raced headlong to help.
And, dog-like, he didn't stop a polite distance away and ask if Wightbeard was okay. Instead he plowed straight into the tiny man-ooze-child, not hard but skidding down to press his head to the stranger's chest, soft whimpering in his words.
His miserable blubbering was interrupted by the shocking development of a large, furry, slightly smelly dog barrelling into him. He had no time to be afraid; instead he found a cold nose and a snuffling stinky breath in his face.
And then-... the paws, honking.
His crying turned to sniffling, and then his frown gradually shifted into a smile. A smile, into laughter. He couldn't help but forget the little shards of ice--they weren't that big a deal anyway, right?--in the face of this goofy show. After a moment he clapped tiny hands, and pointed at Bentley.
Truly, here was a savant for the ages.
Okay! ...Okay! This was good!
And it would be all his fault!
Wightbeard, on instinct, leaned forward. Ooze hands wound into the dog's thick fur, and he hugged himself to Bentley.
A dog was a good thing. Petting a dog was a good thing. He was only a few days old, but this was definitely better than... whatever had happened. (He'd just about forgotten, already.)
Despite his use of pore-tightening magic on the way down, he'd found that he'd left a little goop everywhere he went, almost snail-like. (Some of it was in Bentley's fur, even now.) That had left him a little dehydrated; maybe there was a pool somewhere in here? Or a lake, or--one of the little rivers back outside?
Or just a cup of water..?
Bentley regarded the tiny bearded child for a moment. He'd seen just enough humanoids to wonder at how old Wightbeard looked, despite clearly being young, but shrugged it off. He'd seen a lot weirder things, too.
He led the way to the kitchen--it was a small matter to request a little water, and to deliver it to Wightbeard in a large cup. Then Bentley sat back, panting, tail wagging--hoping this would help the poor kid.
Wightbeard pushed clumsily up, and then tottered after the dog. The thin trail of goop he left behind, he was oblivious to--it wasn't a lot, in any case. Just like the imprint of oily skin.
He tried to consider the ideas of reading and writing, but with no idea what those things were, this proved an exercise in futility.
He sat down heavily again, a squelch of his ooze a reminder that he was not a creature of meat and bone. Then he lifted the cup to his lips, tilted his head back, and simply consumed it. There was no normal gulping, gasping for breath; he just poured the fluid down into his body. The ooze that made up his form plumped back out, and he smacked his fake lips.
His tail wagged as he gently took the cup, returning it to Nedies.
The child listened with fascination until Bentley had fully finished speaking.
...Maybe this was why? For... books, reading-and-writing, about the ocean?
It didn't really make sense; he didn't understand it, and as a child with very little life experience he couldn't really gauge whether he might be right, or not. But... he felt no urge to press on elsewhere. So... he might as well, right?
Tail swished behind him, still, and he suppressed the urge to bound off--wild-eyed and lolling-tongued--to the library. Instead he paced more sedately, keeping a pace the child could stick to, glancing back now and then to ensure that Wightbeard could keep up.
Once they'd arrived, he led the way inside: a tall, broad room with white columns and dim lighting, but a crackling fireplace with comfortable chairs (and floor cushions, and pillows) scattered between towering shelves full of book after book. He tried to send out a little extra light, but his magicka didn't work properly; it sparked and sizzled out. Bentley didn't mind--that tended to happen a lot.