At one point I started talking to an elderly woman in a dress with a pattern that mirrored the night sky. I had had a bit to drink by then and rambled on about my dreams, how I wished to become a famous mage and how in my darkest moments I feared it would never happen. She listened intently and, when I was done, told me that if I worked very hard, I might be able to lose my accent. That exchange was depressingly the closest thing I had to a conversation of substance.
