A manticore’s voice sounds exactly like a dozen trumpets, if a dozen trumpets were playing twelve different jazz scores and all the musicians were deaf and stranded at different points in time.
His voice sounded to Amos like wind over mouse fur, or sand ground into old velvet.
The Beast roars, but we pay it no attention. It’s just talking to itself.
“No swearing, Andrea. Bastardville is a family town.”
(Incidentally, her name is Angela.)
“I am an academic,” said Professor Mandelay, “and thus have no finely developed senses that would be comprehensible to anyone who has not ever needed to grade papers without actually reading the blessed things.”