-What are you writing?- I asked the young woman.
Irene Bellvaunt jumped a bit, and quickly twisted her head to glare at me. She had been sitting at a table in her kitchen, scribbling away in a small book, when I entered. Apparently, she hadn’t heard me come in. I chose to be impressed with her resilience — I often encountered humans who simply ran away when I suddenly appeared behind them. Not that I blamed them, of course.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered angrily. “I’m just writing in my journal.”
-Is that so,- I said, pretending to be disinterested. Well, given my lack of an actual voice, I always sound disinterested, so it wasn’t too hard to pretend. I was actually a bit intrigued about what she might be writing, but sadly, her handwriting was too atrocious to quickly interpret.
Or the written language had shifted again. That happened sometimes. The printed pages that Metria had provided me were legible, though, so she probably was just a terrible writer. Continue reading