“Look, we’re a peaceful religion,” the guy in the cells says miserably. “We were just handing out…scripture. And those others came and started throwing rocks at us!”
“Tithenites, aye,” the Watchmun anvilthane says peaceably, feet propped on the table, peeling some inscrutable dwarf-edible tuber in a single long spiralling strand with a razor-sharp pantographic knife. “They’re in lockup, too.”
“I know,” the guy says. “They’ve spent all night shouting rude things down the corridor at us.”
His fellow acolytes nod miserably.
“Aye,” the Watchmun says.
“Surely it’s no crime to hand out scripture!” the guy says.
“Most peoples’,” the anvilthane observes peaceably, “don’t come in little stoppered chemical tubes, nor slither away to colonise the sewers if ye drop it.”
“The Font of Overflowing Slime is not blessed with cross-morphogenic literacy!” the guy protests. “They’re harmless! Logophoric slimes are a time-honoured tradition for the transfer of knowledge!”
“By spies,” the anvilthane says. “By sneaks. Not generally by folks up to any good. Regardless, they’re invasive.”
“That’s prejudiced,” the guy says, a touch sulkily. “And you can’t just let the Tithenites throw rocks at us!”
“You should see what they do to slimes!” the anvilthane says cheerily.
