[While Carlos tries to see the learning opportunities in all potentially teachable moments, or at least a shade of optimism amidst a strange and often dissatisfactory situation, this one is a tough nut to crack. Or, not really, if he’s being totally accurate (and when is he not?), as his tree nut allergy prevents him from cracking any kind of nut. It’s a lonesome road, but—oh!]

Oh! [he exclaims in harmonic unison with the narration.] That’s one. “I...am not...allergic...to lemons.”

[Sitting a table alone by himself with the remnants of the real lemon tart in front of him, Carlos returns the Fantasy Bic Pen to a comfortable perch behind his ear, staring forlornly—but less forlornly than a mere few moments previous—at the slip of paper that was given to him. The only thing written on it so far is the phrase “I am not alergic (sic) to lemons”.

Throw this poor guy a bone, and pray it’s not also citrus-based.]

[Sometimes things are more realistic than they first sound. Postgrad, for instance. Or rollercoasters. And then you find yourself talked into a grand idea of adventure and fun, and you end up nauseous, and tired, and with a bunch of broom bristles in your perfectly manicured hair. The sentiment is the same even if the circumstances are at least slightly different.

Really, he’s not even sure why he signed up for this. Well—he knows Why. The Why is that he is into anything that sounds scientifically interesting, which is most things, but particularly Creatures and other Mobile Objects of Interest. That’s the Why. He didn’t think far enough ahead to how a slightly out-of-shape chemist would wrangle the herd of murder-brooms. That would be the right thing to do, but he didn’t do it, and he most likely will not learn much from this experience, so good luck trying to get him to stop doing it.

He can be found cowering (observing from a safe distance) under a table at a closed (due to Broom Crimes) bistro, a very helpful pile of papers scattered next to him and an equally helpful pile of potential tincture in his cupped hands. It’s like science, he tells himself. You just mix, and think, and clap when something goes well, and also chant spells sometimes. Hide with him, fellow Reclaimers! Be the bold and courageous people you were meant to be by practicing Fantasy Titrations.]

[In his copious amounts of spare time (really, where does he get it from?), Carlos can be found in the bookstore, absorbed in some ancient tome of secrets, or an especially steamy novel about a romantic drama between three different orcs from three different orc tribes who all are named variants of the syllable “bog” (both the orcs and their respective tribes). It’s extremely engaging.

So engaging that, in fact, he doesn’t notice the approach of anyone else in his particular corner of the building, leading to a very red-faced and flustered Carlos when he does see whoever is trying to engage with him, you know, like a normal person.]

Hi! Sorry, hi. Um. Hello. I’m reading erotic bog-fiction.

[It’s difficult to discern from that interaction alone, but it’ll soon become plain to see: the man is incapable of telling a lie. Jeez, what was in that book to do that to him? At least he’s not speaking Orcish.]

[ go for anything else you want to do! i am wide open for any ideas y’all have. hit me. ]