'Whatever capacity' anyone 'sees fit' is, of course, a dreadfully wide-ranging and nonspecific answer; one that could demand Ortus take to his knees, to fulfill all manner of servile and demeaning tasks — no small number of which would ensure that Ortus would get more than a taste of his own greasepaint shoved down his throat. Well, presumably not with Harrowhark, but then again — it isn't as if Augustine has ever had a reason to be interested in identifying the Ninth Saint's preferred sexual peccadilloes, in the not-quite-a-year he's known her.

"Lord love a man who's good with his mouth," he answers airily, making no secret of the way his gaze is locked on that abbreviated gesture, as if desperately hoping for another glimpse of unpainted (pink!) tongue. "As do I, for that matter." (Wait, what? Is he implying something about the Lord Undying, if he structures his sentences so?) "Tell me — do you prefer to be the one opening up and letting whatever words come to hand spill out of your mouth, when inspiration strikes — or would you rather be the one doing the inspiring?"

(Poor Ortus.)