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. "Are you okay?" he asked, and instead of that polite distance he was trying to nudge and nuzzle at the kid's face reassuringly. (It wasn't weird. Bentley is just a dog.) Then--"It's okay! You're okay! I'm here! I'm here and I'm Bentley and I will help you!" This was all said with frantic worry, almost fear--he didn't know if any of it were true, but the upset kid upset him in turn, and deeply.

"Look!" he cried, pulling back and leaping up, drawing on his magic. "Listen!" He pranced quickly around, his paws making a horrendous and hilarious series of loud HONKs and SQUEAKs. Bentley grinned hopefully at Wightbeard--would this be a good distraction..?

Okay! ...Okay! This was good!

"Dog!" he barked in agreement, dropping abruptly to his haunches. Behind him, his tail swept to and fro, gathering dust from the palace floor. "D-O-G! That spells Dog," he explained, grinning, tongue lolling.

"My name is Bentley! Are you okay? What-" No, don't ask! He'll get sad again! "-...What can I do for you?!" he corrected into, hopeful that he hadn't messed that up. He didn't want poor ooze-child to begin crying, again!

And it would be all his fault!

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.

"D-O-G!" he repeated, in cheerful agreement. He pushed up and turned. "Come this way! There is water at the kitchen! We can get you some! You can drink it!" Bentley pranced slowly off, glancing back to ensure the child could keep up. Every word was given with bright enthusiasm as he went.

"D-O-and-G are letters! I can Read and Write! I am one of the Archivists! I can teach you, if you want! There are lots of books, in the library!"

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.

"No, no! Oh! Reading is a thing you do. If you want to come with me I will show you! The books have a lot of in-form-ation in them," he went on, as if sounding the word out in his mind. "Things about cooking or building things or plants! There's lots of things!"

His tail wagged as he gently took the cup, returning it to Nedies. "D is a letter! It makes a 'duh' sound! Duh-og! So it's the first letter of the word Dog!" He spun a brief, happy circle, claws tapping the tile. "Writing means marking down the symbols of the letters! And if you can read, you can understand the sounds the markings make! So you can write things, and someone can come later, and read your words! It's like magic!" he exclaimed.

"There are books about everything!" Bentley assured him. He turned, tail wagging, and started click-padding off toward the library. "It isn't far!"

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. "These are the books!" He trotted over to a shelf, nosing toward--but not touching--the spine of one. "This one says--'The Many Uses of Rose Hips!' I don't think roses have hips," he added, a little puzzled. "Roses are flowers. I'll read it later and find out! But what do you want to know?" he asked, grinning back at Wightbeard.