Goddess, yet another new experience.
I feel as I often did when father handed us scrolls and requested that we fill them with the lessons we had learned that week. All that blank parchment would stare at me, and I could just feel the expectation. I wanted to fill it with glorious tales of knights and their heroic deeds
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(Does this thing keep staring accusingly at you, getting all worked up about being used as a device to get excess thoughts from your head? Or is that just mine?
I don't think it liked me calling Jon a prat in it, either.)
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(Neither option, actually. I think it's just your head. By which I mean yes, of course. It's as I said. I think it almost expects something of me.)
You called Jon a prat?
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Infernal devices. A pox on their creator.
...only not, because this is the most I've managed to talk to you in days. Not half keeping us busy, are they?
(I meant it in the nicest possible way! And he's not always a prat, he's just sometimes got this air of... minor prattishness.)
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Yes, that's a compliment.
Does writing count as talking? Because I assure you, I'm much better with the latter. Not that you would know, as you mentioned, as it does in fact seem like ages since we said more than a passing word to each other. I thought our studies would lessen this year, but it appears to have been false hope.
(He is not a prat. Granted, I would sooner kiss a pig than argue with him on some days, but I'm quite sure I'm meant to be defending his honor.
Did you notice how his hair was sticking up this morning?)
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