There is a finality with which the Storyteller issues their bottom line, and yet they remain before the fire. For there are the stories for them to collect -- as there always are, and as they must do. The ocelot sets their cloven hoof delicately upon the gray cover of their tome, and they listen. It is their wont.

So, too, does the Storyteller recognize the stirrings of inquiries among their charges. Their duty to the collection of tales is their priority, of course, and they will not entertain interruptions to the Storytelling. But when everyone has finished, when it is the Storyteller's common cue to lift themself from the sand, seize their tome, and snuff the fire in a flurry of light that islanders process as sunlight upon awakening to the real world, they do not.

They simply turn to a blank, spontaneous page in their tome, and incline their head invitingly.