[ It makes sense to Armand. If magic is like poetry -- and Gale isn't the only magic-user to make that connection -- it stands to reason that learning to use it is as complicated as learning forms and grammar. He tucks his new decoration into his coat pocket and pauses, looking at his own hand, wondering briefly if an undead body can possess magic as well as the Dark Gift, or if they would be in conflict, whether he'd find himself pulled apart by the forces within.

A young woman steps into their path, ready to offer them some flowers for purchase, but thinking about her itchy skirt and the fact that she would rather be watching the tournament. Idly, Armand takes the thought in her mind and pushes on it, turning her away from them and back into the crowd. ]

Then you must be well beyond simple rhymes. Why not use something more impressive? Something that could break apart these walls we find ourselves trapped in? [ He waves his hand at the grounds and the bright autumn afternoon. ] Why limit yourself to child's play, simply to impress a seller of baubles?