"It's nothing. Those letters help to form histories, and those pass on and on. It's...I don't know, it's weird to think about legacies that far into the future, but it's something I've thought about a lot lately," Waver said. He closed his eyes, letting the ocean breeze ruffle at his hair. The few stray strands not pulled back blew in the wind, only to smack him in the face as the breeze shifted slightly.

"It's...it's an art, in the end. Practiced and perfected and with a high risk involved. And there's trickery involved, like swallowing keys and then throwing them up on command, but that's still a particular skillset." Waver didn't want to imagine how much time it took to gain those skills. It wasn't important. "And that's why one pays to see it done, in the end."

Waver's face goes into a soft smile at those words. They're warm, thoughtful, and sentimental without being overly saccharine. "I feel as if I need to write that down and keep it on my person."