[ Dorian has, at various points (get it) perhaps attempted to interject syllables here, but to no avail. But ha, the day is his, for when she drops her sticks he spies an opening!

Except the crestfallenness is precious; he manages not to laugh, because he would like to keep all his squishy places ...unsquished. As he can imagine Sera herself perhaps saying. ]

You know - [ after a year together he really somehow still cannot leave well enough alone ]

A bit of well placed flame could sharpen those right up, surely. Absolutely no magic on your person, I promise! Just the sticks.

[Please don't call them tools. Please. ]