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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

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"Oi mates! Whot's 'is about guilds?" Lithe but sturdy Matteo enters the Banquet room speaking in an obvious and horribly executed accent, the lilting vowel sounds vaguely resembling some form of Irish-Australian hybrid.

 

"Sorry, I never was much for the intricacies of impersonation." He pauses for a moment scanning the room for reactions, smiling feebly in a hope to instill, if nothing else, pity in his obviously unimpressed audience. "Nonetheless, the question is sound, I heard something about guilds. Now I may be ignorant impatient or blind, but I'm slightly lost as to the application of said factions."

 

Once again, he looks about the room uncomfortably aware of the number of eyes disecting every nervous motion, exagerated as they are by his evident unease. Though confident in voice, his usually passive tendencies push through to the surface as he visibly shrinks under the scrutiny of so many able men and women.

 

"Maybe I'll just take a seat... "

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