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Aimé (which had become quite a lovely and frequently-used nickname) remained quite moody. He had found a banjo of all things in one of the run-down cottages; almost like a slap in the face considering the horrific state of his fingers. Bar chords: the new fashionable drug, apparently.
The reason for this moodiness was more obvious to him now. Alli had made it clear to him that she—and not her alone—needed him. Aimé couldn't quite handle responsibility; and now he had a barely conceivable amount of the stuff (as he saw it). How was he supposed to take it? Whatever happened, he wasn't going to be happy about it.
And now he had heard about the crazed wizard's machinations concerning werewolves or the lack thereof or whatever it was that was happening in this village. Indeed, what was happening? And more importantly: Why was Aimé involved in it?
It wasn't all bad, though. There were a few pretty girls around. And what's more, one of them had even given Aimé a plausible romance to work with. Not that he was going to get too involved, though. The relationships between certain members of the Offending Party were very hard to decipher, especially the ones Alli was involved in. Aimé didn't know too much about them, and made it clear to the others that he didn't. He was outstanding in that he was so obviously 'to the side', a cameo, if you will, in the lives of these people.
One thing Aimé had experienced a lot in Mordor was after-date paranoia. This is something which, he argued, had its good aspects as well as its bad. It gave him something to think about. Alli gave him a hell of a lot to think about.
But he wasn't going to get too involved. He couldn't.
Right?
Aimé slouched by the well, and sighed in a rather melodramatic manner.
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