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A vampire Serg and a witch Yvette
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"Thanks. ... Somewhat morbidly, is there a, hm. Range of how, uh. Delicious witches are?"

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"...What do you mean?"

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"Are witches with more practice at magic more delicious than witches without?"

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"Oh. Yes."

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She nods.

... She looks like she's considering asking a question, but isn't quite brave enough to get the words out.

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Well he's hardly about to guess.

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For a few seconds she frets over if she wants to know or not, fidgeting thoughtfully, then:

"... For, for um. Context. And having - some impression of the, the average witch's magical ability..." Fidget fidget oh look at her scrunching down nervously in her seat. "How did I, um. Fare. On the - the range. Of deliciousness."

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"You're doing well for your age but you're still pretty young."

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She nods, not sure how to feel about that answer. Emotionally, anyway. She can do something with it practically.

"Thanks. So - below witchly average is probably good, actually, it means I have a lot of room to grow. And since I don't really know how I'd manage immortality right now... doing well for my age but still young is good."

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"Yeah, I guess so."

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"And I don't have to hide from vampires, so maybe I can improve faster than the average."

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"Seems plausible!"

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She smiles a little. ... Then it fades and she looks thoughtful.

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"Hm?"

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"Ah, sorry, I recently received flowers from someone a little out of my league, socially. I was considering how managing a household as, um, large as his would complicate matters. I probably wouldn't have the time to improve faster than average magically, then."

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"Ah."

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"Other women would jump at the chance, perhaps rightly. If he's tolerable it'd be quite a comfortable situation. But I need more than comfortable domesticity." She sounds faintly wistful, though.

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"Comfortable domesticity seems like a pretty good place to start, but not if it kills you, you know?"

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"By not giving me the freedom to figure out how to save myself? ... Yeah. I suppose I hadn't thought of it like that, thank you."

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He smiles wryly.

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She smiles back. ... Then is interrupted by a yawn.

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He laughs. "That sounds like my cue to leave."

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Snort. "Probably, yeah. Good night, Tasfal."

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"Goodnight. And good luck with your flowers."

Off he goes, owling into the night.

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"Thanks," she murmurs to the night sky.

She goes to bed.

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