Verminius waits for Strange to excavate a writing instrument befitting his station without rankling; too tired and soggy on the inside for a spark of irritation to find kindling. If he’s still around six months from now and remembers this moment, he might attempt to steal this special brass pen then.

For now, he receives what he’s asked for, draws ink up from the well, and strains his eyes to find his place on the form again.

“Mmm,” His voice gravels muddy in the back of his throat, non-committal as he writes, n o. A brief pause to consider the lay of the ink, and he continues on writing to answer ahead: no, no, none, burn them. And so on.

“No,” he answers aloud, finally, as he ponders the last question.

“Where are you from?”