Date: 2017-07-28 07:21 pm (UTC)
minrathousian: (atticus | smirk 2)
The look Atticus gives Benedict is the closest approximation that he can conjure to pitying. "Our staff don't service the apprentices' barracks." Yes, barracks--you heard that right, Benedict. Dormitory living--you, and perhaps twelve other snivelling spoilt wretches just like you, washing your own clothes, making your own beds, perhaps even boiling your own water for a cup of tea. Here it is, the edge of civilization--you've reached it.

He goes on with an idle gesture of his wine glass. "I think you will enjoy the apprentices' lodge. It's charmingly rustic, complete with a view of the lake. The bath house is but a short walk down hill."

He takes a fortifying sip of his wine.
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August 2017

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