"Faatherrr," a childish voice exclaims. There's a view of expensive burgundy brocade then tilting up to see a scholarly face.
"Not now, Ffamran." A large hand descending, ruffling short hair.
"But--"
"I'll take you to the theatre, next week, if you behave for the rest of this one." A hand dips into a pocket, producing a tiny model of an airship,
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...Pardon me?
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These things are... sharing things. [Way to be eloquent, Asellus. Good job.] Like dreams, or... memories, it seems? It was... not a terrible memory. [Well, from her vantage point, anyway.]
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You... you saw it?
[Cue facepalm and a muffled groan. Great, there went his reputation.]
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...Don't be too upset. It happened to me, too, so it's not like I've got any advantage.
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It's not a memory I care to have others see.
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...Except the guy with the concert. He seemed pretty okay with it.
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I suppose some men would rather pretend more witnesses create reality.
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I guess so. He seemed pretty insistent that he was the life of the party, anyway.
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Insecurity is something few men wear well. I've never really found use for it in my wardrobe.
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It's a little bulky-- you can see it from a mile away. Too flashy for me.
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A little heavy, certainly. Impossible to pair with any dignity.
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And it tends to stink of desperation. Not a good cologne on any man.
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Or any woman, for that matter.
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