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... printed upon, the long stretching quill that'd been doing the writing tapping along the paper, spotted in ink that was pooled in a nearby glass container.

Rowan's arm stretched to the paper's edges as his hand hastily etched each syllable, the words and their meanings accumulating in a way that he felt most at home.

After a couple seconds, he retracted his arm, setting the quill down to look upon his finished work, short as it was.

"Hm... I think I like this one," he said ...

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