Tears of a Heart Kan Savasci Cycle Book 1
by Chase Blackwood Genre: Epic Fantasy
Winner of John E Weaver Excellent Reads Award #50 of 100 Best Fantasy Series Ever- reedsydiscovery
He's been called the Scourge of Bodig, the Bane of Verold, but most know him as the Kan Savasci. He's one of the most feared men alive. Chaos and war have followed him like an angry shadow.
The one problem, as the world faces the wrath of forgotten gods, Kan Savasci is nowhere to be found.
The annalist, a man trained in the ancient arts of the arkein, has been tasked to uncover the whereabouts of the Kan Savasci at any cost. In order to find the man, one must unmask the depths of his reclusive history.
The clock is ticking as Verold descends into darkness.
Delve into an award-winning fantasy novel described as "epic," "beautiful," and "reminiscent of Rothfuss' work."
It was on a warm Sumor day that he found himself on one of the many roads leading to the great city on the shores of the River Lif.
Irrigation streams carved channels through the valley, sectioning off parcels of land for farming. Aeden had never seen farming on such a scale. The thoroughfares were made of crushed stone and were plied upon by thousands of groups. Travelers, troupers, farmers, merchants, and the nobility all made their way over the vast network of roads.
The route he took led to the heart of Bodig. By the third day he could make out the great Red City. Massive walls of maroon-hued sunstone enshrouded the city. The early morning light graced the sunstone and cast it in luminescence, giving it the appearance of a giant gemstone.
To his left, the River Lif carved a wide, slow-moving channel. Its waters shimmered in the morning light, feeding the great vine of the central kingdom.
There was almost too much for Aeden to process. He had grown accustomed to the quiet of the forest. The sights and sounds sparked lucid fragments of crumbling memory. A brief flash of him sitting about a campfire settled in his mind.
He was back in his village, sitting next to Devon after a long day of training. Their bellies were full and stories of faraway lands were told to amuse and to educate. He would purposefully position himself to watch the firelight play with Dannon’s delicate features. That night was the story of the Great Empire to the West. How one man set about uniting three massive kingdoms.
Aeden blinked back tears and attempted to clear his throat of the constant lump of sadness that now resided there. He glanced down; surprised to see he was clutching the lock of Dannon’s hair. He tucked it back into his pocket and followed the movements of the boats plying the River Lif in an effort to distract himself.
Brightly colored sails flapped in the subtle wind. Flags demarcating noble houses of trade snapped and fluttered. Dark-skinned men appeared as insects in the distance moving about the wooden decks. Aeden couldn’t help but wonder what Devon would think of it all.
Thoughts consumed Aeden, swallowing the hours as the sun rose into the afternoon sky. He had followed a trouper’s caravan to the walls of the Red City. A series of piers stretched out to his left. Boats of various make and shape were docked. Men were busy casting lines, offloading cargo, or shouting orders. Smaller skiffs lay anchored, awaiting their turn, sails folded and tucked away.
Soldiers stood alert along the road leading to the huge gates. They had the solid look of pillars, sweating under the Sumor sun. The symbol of an oak tree with a single sword underneath emblazoned their red chest armor. Aeden quickly wrapped his bodark bow, quiver, and Templas sword within the folds of the great shroud cat’s skin that he carried upon his back.
He huddled ever closer to the multi-colored wagon in front of him, its wheels creaking over the gravel and stone. Aeden was temporarily cast in shade as they squeezed through the massive archway of one of the main entrances to the city. Huge metal gates stood open, the black bars stood in stark contrast to the differing shades of red brick that comprised the walls. The bricks themselves were partially transparent, as if they struggled to retain the color within. A shove from behind snapped him out of his fascination and forced him into the city. He was surprised at how many people were making their way into Bodig. It reminded him of the mass elk migrations he had seen back home.
Once within the city walls he left the relative safety of the lumbering trouper caravan. The smells of spices, humanity, and rotting foods flooded his senses. A dizzying array of colorful stalls lined the great artery leading deeper into the capital. People shoved, shouted, and bargained as they clogged the streets. Small alleyways twisted off the main road like branches of some great tree. Smaller shops lined the alleys cast in shade by red canvas strung overhead. Bins of spice stretched into the twisting depths of each alley he saw. He never knew there were so many spices in all of Verold.
Foreign words were uttered all about him. People pushed past him as he watched a small group of children beg for food. All the while the swelling tide of humanity pushed him ever deeper into the heart of the Red City. Hopefully toward a place of greater quiet, he thought.
Aeden passed another wall and another open gate. He paused, briefly running a hand along the strangely translucent, red stone. This second section was nearly as busy as the first. People continued to push their way through the crowds like rain upon an open mountain.
Almost immediately the stench of feces, blood, and death hit him like a fist to the stomach. A cacophony of squeaks, squeals, barks, and hollers trumped the haggling shouts of the populace. Live animals of every shape and size imaginable were chained, caged, or otherwise enclosed and for sale. The ground was a slippery mixture of dung, urine, and water, all running in thin runnels over faded stone.
Flies buzzed about in angry clusters. They droned around incessantly. They were attracted by the ever-present metallic tinge of blood. Small rivulets of red ran from the stands where animals were killed. Impatient customers watched in agitated boredom, swatting at flies as butchers worked their craft. The scene was fascinating, gruesome, and mundane.
The hours stretched by slowly under the sultry embrace of the day. The heat made his clothes stick to his body. His skin was red from the sun and his mouth was dry and thirsty. In that span of time he heard the shouting and haggling of slavers peddling their slaves. Men walked past his cage, looking inquiringly upon the fresh crew and the four monks. On occasion words were exchanged between one of the slavers and the perspective buyer.
It wasn’t until the sun was a couple of hours from setting that Reem returned. The green-robed fat man procured a key and the crew members of the Seventh Sage were called forward. The monks were told to remain behind.
Aeden moved to the far side of the cage and attempted to watch the sale of the crewmembers. They were led to the block one at a time.
“Salvare still watches over us,” Aeden heard Odilo whisper.
He turned to see Odilo comforting Adel. Neri sat in a corner staring at a spot on the ground.
“He’s forsaken us to this hell,” Adel responded. “Salvare wouldn’t allow men such actions.”
“He’s allowed far worse. Empires have been built on the backs of the less fortunate. It is the faith that He reserves judgment for that final breath that allows one to accept such atrocities,” Odilo replied gently.
Aeden stared at Odilo for a moment. The fundamental idea of the Holy Order of Salvare flashed before his eyes, and its one glaring weakness now echoed loudly in his mind, faith. It was a word often used, but what strength did the word hold when imperial soldiers were allowed to slaughter innocents in Nailsea? What did faith do to stop the pirates from capturing the Seventh Sage? What would faith have done to stop the draccus fiend from destroying his home, his family, and his friends?
The answer was nothing. He required something more tangible, more powerful than faith.
“Seventh hell isn’t punishment enough for them,” Adel responded, anger evident in his eyes. Good, Aeden thought, use your anger to remain strong, to retain a sense of self and purpose. He watched Odilo and Adel for only a moment longer before turning his attention to the auctioning block.
“Hada sani kre gecelum!” The green robed man shouted, gesturing for them to get out.
The four monks shuffled out of the cage at the direction of the fat guard. They were led past empty cages where slaves had been held and then sold. As they moved toward the auctioning block Aeden’s stomach tightened. He was about to be sold as a piece of property. Would he be bought by someone fair? What type of work would they demand of him? Fear reared its ugly head and fanned the flames of anxiety.
Tower of the Arkein
Kan Savasci Cycle Book 2
2017Royal Dragonfly E-Book Award Winner, 1st Place Beverley Hills Book Award Finalist: Fantasy
2017 Best Book Awards Finalist: Fantasy #50 of 100 Best Fantasy Series Ever- reedsydiscovery
Trapped as a slave, facing an impossible decision, Aeden must choose between his friends and his soul...
The clock is ticking as the world descends into darkness.
He's been called the Scourge of Bodig, the Bane of Verold, but most know him as the Kan Savasci. He's one of the most feared men alive. Chaos and war have followed him like an angry shadow. The one problem, as the world faces the wrath of forgotten gods, Kan Savasci is nowhere to be found.
The annalist, a man trained in the ancient arts of the arkein, has been tasked to uncover the whereabouts of the Kan Savasci at any cost. In order to find the man, one must unmask the depths of his reclusive history.
Aeden stood on the deck of the Tempest, as he watched the shores of the Imperium fade away. Adel stood by his side, silent as a willow.
A gentle wind spread the salty spray from the bow across the stern of the ship. The sun was warm and the sky free of clouds. It felt like nature was working to bring peace to Aeden. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the sun and the soft touch of the sea air.
It was a new start. He would find answers and purpose on the Isle of Galdor.
Aeden then looked to Adel and nodded to himself.
“You got the letter,” he said quietly to his friend.
Adel looked up at his adopted brother and clapped a hand upon his shoulder. He didn’t need to say anything. Adel could tell Aeden was hurting.
Adel had been surprised to receive a letter from the First House of Bodig, from the archduchess herself. Several of the monks had been curious, teased him, and gossiped. The letter had been an invitation to join Aeden. It was a letter releasing him from the bonds of the Holy Order of Salvare and allowing him to experience Verold.
“You remembered,” Adel replied.
Aeden merely nodded, remembering his promise to let Adel know if he left Bodig.
“I couldn’t stay at the monastery anymore,” Adel said quietly, “not after everything I had seen on the pilgrimage. Not without Odilo, and Thomas, and you.”
Aeden looked over to Adel and managed a smile.
“We’re starting a new life,” Aeden said.
He looked across the cold waters to the distant shores of the Imperium. Aeden felt a pang of sadness as he was carried farther from his old life, swept away from the sweet touch of the archduchess.
“What happened?” Adel asked.
Aeden continued to stare across the open ocean. Somehow, he felt unable to answer. If he spoke, everything he was feeling would come spilling out. Instead, he simply stared at the ever-changing pattern of the sea.
“I’m here my friend,” Adel said in a whisper, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
Aeden closed his eyes.
There were the obvious physical indicators of Aeden’s encounter at Water’s Gate. In fact, when Adel had found Aeden, blood was running down Aeden’s face, blood flowed from a cut in his arm, and a gash in his leg. Adel helped treat the wounds, cleaning, sewing them shut and wrapping them as best as he could.
It was the emotional pain that lingered. It shrouded Aeden the way mist clung to a mountain peak. So, Adel did what any true friend would do. He remained by Aeden’s side. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to.
Adel let his own questions dissolve into silence.
The continental landmass faded to nothing but a line upon the horizon as the ship drew away. Sailors rigged sails, tied knots, and busied themselves with the activities of sailing. Aeden hardly noticed.
He didn’t notice as the sun slowly traveled through the horizon. He didn’t pay any attention to the other passenger, a female from the north. He hardly even paid attention to Adel, the one friend he now had in all of Verold.
Instead, Aeden sat on the ship consumed by thought. The gentle rocking of the caravel, the soft caress of the salty air, and the warm touch of the sun only served to transport him further from the setting.
The ship’s sails billowed under the prevailing wind, and the Tempest cut a white swath through the azure waters.
Memories of Aeden’s last sea voyage drifted languidly into his mind.
He saw the nearly toothless captain, Nawfel Murad Q’Bala, covering the Bocian, the holy book of Ghut, written by the prophet Beccid. He remembered the boatswain Hamal Badi Agir and their bout beneath the unrelenting sun of the Gulf of Galdor. That’s when Aeden’s thoughts
turned sour. The bloodied memory of Hamal being thrown off the Zafer lingered like the ill-struck chord of an otherwise beautiful symphony.
The memory of Odilo rose above the raging savagery.
Aeden recalled when they had manned the bilge below deck. He remembered when they had spoken. Odilo had told him of his past, of the horrors he had witnessed as a boy. Odilo had spoken of the monk with a scarred face who had saved him, a former Deacon of Somerset. Last, was Odilo’s hint that Aeden might not be suited for the monastic life.
This was the crux Aeden faced and it nagged at him with unrelenting purpose. Who was he?
He had been groomed to become leader of the Thane, yet they had been wiped out in one act of violence. He had left the Holy Order of Salvare, turning away the safety and relative solitude of monastic life. He was not to be a slave, he had proved that beyond doubt while held captive by Jal Isa Sha’ril. And he was not to be with the archduchess.
It was this last thought that carried the bleak weight of anguish. Alina Cynesige, the Archduchess of the First House of Bodig and Holder of Keys, had turned him away. The cold hand of despair squeezed at his heart. It choked all thought, until all he could see was the lingering images of the archduchess.
He glanced about desperately in an effort to clear his mind. Aeden hardly noticed the female passenger from the north. She too was looking out at sea. A cloud of loss surrounded her and only compounded his sense of solitude.
He might as well have been on another ship traveling on another sea. Aeden was stuck in the past.
One would imagine he had been thinking about the night he had killed an Inquisitor. His injuries still chafed as the ship rolled with the waves at sea. But they’d be wrong. He was thinking on more bittersweet things.
The physical discomfort he felt, reminded him of sitting in a room alone with Alina Cynesige. It reminded him of her gentle touch as she stitched his arm. As she leaned forward, smiled and watched him. It reminded him of their first kiss.
It had been so soft, so warm.
Images of the archduchess haunted him with her beauty. Her smiling eyes had been seared into his mind’s eye as if brandished there with a hot iron. Her laughter echoed in his head and images of her half-naked form spilled into his consciousness like warm wine.
Aeden surrendered to his thoughts as his heart bled emotion.
Into the Fold Kan Savasci Cycle Book 3
Continue the Award Winning Saga...
For over a millennium The Fold has been a carefully guarded secret, shrouded in mystery. Within its shadowy depths the greatest of the old gods had carved a world unto himself. A place unrivaled in its beauty, obscurity, and danger.
Trapped within The Fold, under the tutelage of the last arkeinists, Aeden must overcome his greatest obstacle, or die trying.
Welcome to Chase Blackwood's author bio, where he'll try to write something interesting about his life that captures your attention.
Chase Blackwood's life has been defined by struggle the way a moth battles an insect zapping light. He's studied martial arts since childhood in an effort to overcome fear. He's lived in a half dozen countries in an effort to "find himself," traveled to over 60 countries in an effort to "find humanity," lived in nine states just for the hell of it, oh... and the military has had something to do with that too. Chase has enjoyed combating terrorism, working as a federal agent, and also really likes puppies.
His most recent passion, puppies aside, has been working on the Kan Savasci Cycle, a series of fantasy novels that pulls from his life experiences to make the most vivid world imaginable.
How do you find time to write as a parent?
Great question! For me, it ultimately boils down to time management.
Before my child was born, many of my friends and family members said my life would completely change. They said nothing would be the same. I was told to get ready to rock a dad bod, as I’d be forced to skip the gym. I was told I might as well stop writing as I’d have no time to write, and to forget travel.
Now, there is an element of truth to the lack of time. A child is a massive responsibility. I think it’s one of the greatest responsibilities a person can have. The amount of time and energy focused on children is exorbitant. There is also a need to sleep when time allows. Although, I also have friends who tell me I’ll get enough sleep when I’m dead.
As for time to write, I’m fortunate to fall in the category of having purposefully planned for a baby. I understand this isn’t the reality for everyone, and for those single parents, I don’t know how you do it. That is a challenge and a stress I wouldn’t want to undertake.
So, back to answering the question at hand. I am an early riser and my little angel is not. I awake at the butt-crack of dawn and write whilst everything is still and quiet. I find that I’m more focused before the sun touches the horizon. There are fewer distractions when my slice of the world is still sleeping. The compromise, I often need a small afternoon nap. Thankfully my child likes nap-time as much as I do.
Tell us something really interesting that has happened to you!
The question in itself is interesting. It forces me to stop and think of what the word “interesting” means. I have been in social settings where I’ve been asked about my work, present and prior. I’ve divulged what I could, and would notice eyes slowly moving toward phones or the door. Silence follows as there is no easy response.
In a sense, I lose my audience because they cannot relate. I think that the further from “normal” the story is, the harder it is to connect to. Ironically, and almost paradoxically, the more extreme a story, the more entertaining it is in a book or on TV.
Some of the less relatable, yet “interesting,” things that have “happened to” me are:
I have had people try to kill me (whether by knife, gun, or vehicle), I’ve fallen off a cliff and survived, I’ve been challenged by kung fu masters in China and won (although I did get injured pretty badly in one bout), I’ve fast-roped out of helicopters, I’ve evaded a search party in the mountains for days, I’ve interviewed terrorists and garnered confessions, I’ve saved lives. These events have partially shaped me. More importantly, these events allow me create more dynamic scenes in my books. I draw upon my life experiences to breathe a sense of realism to conflict and to the characters experiencing it (shameless plug: check out the “Kan Savasci Cycle” to see what I mean).
More relatable and equally interesting: I’ve scuba dived (diven, dove?) all over the world (I’ve encountered sharks, had a dive partner rip my mask off as they ran out of air, done wreck dives, deep water dives, night dives), I’ve driven a train in Cuba because the conductor and I were bored and got to talking, I flew a plane over the Caribbean for the same reasons, I have accidentally met some interesting people while working as a catering bartender (Al Gore, Montel Williams, the Kennedys), I’ve loved and lost, I’ve trained and raised a service dog (she was lovely), and I’ve had the good fortune of traveling around the world meeting new people and exploring some strange places.
Again, these events improve my world-building and writing. They allow me to create a more vivid world.
An aside, the crux of interesting. Often, interesting times are not peaceful times. They are not always safe. They are rarely pleasant. They can be filled with conflict, which is the essence of a writer’s tool bag. One cannot write a story with zero conflict, no one would read it.
Daily life is different, routine. I’ve met many fascinating people who haven’t done some of the asinine things I’ve done, and I find them endlessly fascinating. I find them interesting. It’s not necessarily what we’ve experienced, but what we’ve done, and what we continue to do as we’re shaped by our experiences that define us. It is the expression of the collection of one’s life experiences that I find interesting.
A day in the life of the author.
Do you see writing as a career?
For those who make enough money for writing to be their career, kudos. I’d love to one day earn enough from my writings to retire from my work and relax. I’d focus on putting out more books, perhaps adapt some of my books into film or TV.
You’d then see me make cameos in the films I’ve helped create. I’d be like Stan Lee, but younger, or Peter Jackson but taller.
To have the financial freedom to write when I desire, travel when the call arises, and to work on what I’m passionate about would be like riding a unicorn through a field of puppies.
On second thought, that may not be the best analog. In reality the unicorn would trample the little puppies’ bodies as they’d not be able to move away quickly enough as there’d be way too many of them. It’d be a bloody mess (as the British would say, both literally and figuratively).
I’d like to change my analogy from a field of puppies to a field of flowers. In short, absolutely writing could be a career, if it pays the bills.
If you knew you’d die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day?
This one is rather easy. I’d want to spend my last day surrounded by the people I love and cherish. I’d want to be with family (not necessarily all my family, those who make the cut for my final day will get an evite).
As for what would I/we do? I have a few ideas.
One idea would be to do something so extremely boring that the day would pass by at a glacial pace. I’d want the boredom to be so extreme as to be excited by two racing snails. Or to be captivated by the speed of cold dripping honey. I’d have Public Enemies or Seabiscuit playing in a loop in the background while watching dust accumulate on a shelf. This would allow for the day to feel longer, to be “savored.”
Another idea would be to do something my family wanted. I’d love to see them happy on my final day. If they were smiling, I’d be smiling.
Alternatively, I’d drive off a cliff in a stolen Lamborghini while making out with two hot women with a death wish.
When did you consider yourself as a writer?
I have a contradictory answer for this rather simple question. I have both considered myself a writer at a very young age, and still don’t consider myself a writer today.
Please, let me explain. It boils down to definition. As Socrates would argue in Plato’s Republic, one must define the terms of their argument first. I think of a writer in two ways. One, a person who writes in a relatively prolific manner. Two, a person whose lifestyle subsists from the income of writing.
For the first definition, I’ve been writing stories for as long as I can remember. As a young teen I wrote my first novel. As an older teenager I wrote prolific amounts of poetry. As a young adult I wrote a few more novels. In my 30s I co-wrote some health and fitness books. Now, I’m focused on the world I’ve created for the Kan Savasci Cycle, and will likely be within this world for at least a few more years.
As for the second definition. I still write as a hobby. I would love to one day make enough to release my service and obligations to those younger and possibly more fit to do so. It’s a dream of success that I’m slowly working toward one day attaining.
What kind of world ruler would you be?
That is a most challenging question that requires a strong insight into oneself as well as, at the very least, a cursory knowledge of world events, cultures, history, and geography.
In short, I don’t think I have the intellectual capacity, knowledge, or experience to be a good world leader. That being said, let’s explore the question further. I’ll debate myself and see who wins.
The narcissistic side of me would like to believe that my “vast collection,” of experiences and leadership roles would allow me to make responsible decisions. I’ve several college degrees. I’ve worked in a wide variety of fields, to include the sciences, teaching, the military, law enforcement, public relations, tourism, and more. My “worldly” knowledge of having lived on multiple continents, the handful of languages I speak, and the travels I have undertaken would allow me to have a base level of understanding of regional affairs, challenges, and conflicts.
The realist in me would laugh at the narcissist and simply state the obvious: My experiences are a drop in the bucket within the diaspora of the human condition. My travels are insignificant when considering the number of sites around the globe. My leadership positions have never had me lead anything larger than a platoon-sized element.
In conclusion, I believe the world is too large and too complex for any one person to understand. I believe the amount of power wielded by a World Ruler would be to enticing to abuse. I think even the most well-intentioned person would overstep, if only accidently and with the intention to do good, with possibly catastrophic consequences (take down one horrible dictator who killed thousands only to have a region collapse into perpetual warfare and cause hundreds of thousands of deaths). A good leader would need to be logical, callous, and understand trends, underlying causative factors, and would be very much despised by most of the world.
It reminds me of the one ring, from Lord of the Rings. If Gandalf, a powerful wizard with thousands of years of knowledge turned down the ring, who am I to take up the mantle of power and responsibility for nearly eight billion people?
How did you come up with the name for this book?
“Into the Fold” was the name I had chosen for the third entry of the Kan Savasci Cycle, back when I was plotting out this massive story arch. It only made sense within the context of the greater Kan Savasci Cycle. Please, allow me a moment to explain in greater detail.
For those unaware, a short synopsis: Aeden, the protagonist, loses almost everything. He leaves his home in an effort to find his place in Verold, in turn becoming a warrior, a monk, a slave, a student, and a mage. He transitions from Verold into a world created by the old gods, called the Fold. Within the Fold is a school of magic called the Tower of the Arkein. To attain a higher level of magical “certification,” one must enter the “fold” of the arkein.
In essence, it is both a literal and figurative title, playing on two complementary ideas relating to the main character’s journey.
Do your characters seem to hijack the story or do you feel like you have the reigns of the story? Convince us why you feel your book is a must read.
I would say that the characters help shape the story, give it life, help make it relatable. Yet, in the end, they are very much ensnared by the events in the world. Events that are larger than them. They are caught within a web of treachery and power. They are trapped within the paradigm of their being. They are driven by their own motivations, that is until one of them transcends that context, breaks free of the narrative of their being and finds the true meaning of freedom…
Why do I think you must read this book? Simply put, there are few books like it.
I think it’s rare in fantasy to have an author infuse a sense of realism, based on their life experiences, the way I have. Not many have experienced some of the violence, death, and conflict I have. Few writers incorporate the subtle hints of history and culture into their worlds, that create the feel of a grander space. Even fewer authors who’ve experienced tragedy and loss, love and violence, relate their experiences in a way that has been described as “beautiful, bordering on bardic.”
If you are looking for a truly epic story, filled with mystery, and an unfolding storyline that will keep you guessing. If you want a book that at once feels real and fantastical. A book that captivates, immerses you in a new world, and makes you feel for the characters. A book that at times feels like a flowing river within a field of flowers. A book that turns right when you guessed left. A book described as “Patrick Rothfuss, J.R.R. Tolkien, and George R.R. Martin…a perfect mixture of all 3 of these fabulous and extraordinary authors,” then, the Kan Savasci Cycle is for you.
If you could spend time with character(s) from your book, who would it be and what would you do?
I have written three books thus far in the Kan Savasci Cycle, Book 0: “Tears of a Heart, Book 1: “Tower of the Arkein,” and Book 2: “Into the Fold.” Books 1 and 2 have a duo of characters named Dan and Laurent.
Dan is tall, more reserved, loves big words, and enjoys a good debate. Laurent is loud, as the son of a lord he doesn’t care what others think of him, and filled with theories and ideas about anything and everything. Their banter is silly, humorous, and entertaining.
They love to bet on anything and everything. They don’t much care what others think of them. They enjoy life and don’t feel a need to mask that enjoyment from others. In many ways, they lack a proper social filter. In the right circumstances that lack of social etiquette could be quite entertaining.
Now, to fully maximize my enjoyment of our time together, we’d need to be injected into a place rife for commentary. A Mystery Science Theater 3000 type scenario came to mind, but the cultural quips would be challenging for Dan and Laurent, there would be too much they wouldn’t understand. A Renaissance Fair on the other hand would be just relatable enough. It would be filled with a diversity of people and situations to enjoy. Although, at the end of the day I’d be making some apologies on their behalf.
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