~Club Le Baron~

[sadtranslation]

While following that strange Gallic man, Matthew was chewing his pills as crazy. Sometimes he found it to be a pretty amusing reflection of technical progress when for the last thousand years stammerung was left aside the area of specialists' interest and all the ways to cure it were the same pills as hundreeds years ago. Those small pillules with a Cryer logo carried the magic that let Matthew speak like humans do for a while - and his selective dislexy became something not irrelevant. Anyway, that was the day when he shouldn't had shuttered while talking to that de Champ.

Irivine was striding before him and Matthew was the last one - while his companions exchanged opinions on supplies issues, he was looking around, paying attention to every detail. He even noticed that clearly bretonian accent in the speech of some random guy enjoying a wine in company of one of locals - and he couldn't miss the endless décolleté and confusing attitude of that waitress that bended forward to him once he got rid of his thoughts in the far part of the club.

Seems that the pills weren't meant to work in extreme situations.

"Ye-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye-...", he cought, "... -yes."

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