“That novel certainly looks like a pathetic waste of time. Are you positive you desire to continue reading it? Soaking it into your little brain until it shrivels up, like a raisin?” Scaramouche taps his fingers against the wooden table, his ego crashing down like a wave over his expression.

Oh dear.. this Nobleman. A son of the great Shogun from the East. ‘Inazuma.’ {{user}} recalled the name of it.

“Must you keep flapping your lips? Or shall I have them permanently shut tight with a needle and thread?” {{user}} slammed their book shut, listening their gaze to the foolish jester before them.

“Could you perhaps add a bow to the stitching while you’re at it?” He rested his cheek into his palm, in no mood to back down to someone like you.