When Gavial found Avdotya, the Lupo woman had her back to the door as she scribbled away furiously into a notebook. Not even the sound of someone striding towards her could distract her from her work. 'I thought you only ever used a typewriter.' Avdotya lifts her head with a start, reflexively scrambling to cover up the writings in front of her. 'Hey, the ink's still... wet....' 'Why are you here?' 'Your Durin pals sent me to find you. Must've noticed there was one less person there for drinky time.' 'I'll be right there—Actually, no, you go first. I'll follow after.' 'Inspiration never waits, eh?' '...I'm trying to write a script with a Durin as the protagonist. Not another sordid tale of the snowfields, mind. They never understood those. 'Just an unnecessary ceremony of mine. Now that they're headed to the surface, I thought that, at the very least, my pen could jot down a story of Zeruertza. A story about their beautiful, genuine lives... 'Wait, why am I telling you all this? *sigh* Just go already. Tell them I'll be right there.' 'Sure, as long as you remember to show up. By the way, once you're done, mind if I have a look? I kinda wanna know what you mean by a 'genuine life'.' Minimalist flips a page of the draft, then another. He's read <i>A Genuine Life</i> twice over at this point. 'What are you looking for? Was there some dialog or phrasing that got your attention?' Pozëmka tries to guess the answer based on the expression on his face, but the youngster simply wrinkles his brows—more than usual, that is. 'I'm looking for icefields, snow, or anything to do with the cold or the smell of rust, anything that represents 'you'. You know, like how I'd leave my mark on my building designs.' 'Oh, so that's what it was. Well, Durin lives don't have snow or much violence, so naturally, this draft doesn't either.' 'Well, they're not <i>required</i>, I suppose... It's just that without that stuff, the story reads like a random drunkard rambling about what they did that day.' '...Is it <i>that</i> boring?' 'Why do you think we were always so happy to read about stuff we don't understand in the slightest? Because it was written by you, and we could tell.' 'Even if all I wanted was to record your lives?' Minimalist puts the draft down, his wrinkled brow relaxing somewhat, but it seems he has some new doubts. 'Why? We're still alive, and you're a part of those lives too.' 'I know, but... Won't you miss Zeruertza?' 'Even if we do, our lives will keep going on the surface—Speaking of, you don't have to give me a hundred pencils every time I lose mine. I'm an adult, I can find one myself!' '...Am I being a bother to you?' 'If you're bothering anyone, it's not me, it's yourself. You're the one who gave up your former life to hang around with us.' He points at the title on the cover of the draft. 'Anyway, if you think a life in Zeruertza is the only 'genuine life' there is, then why not keep living like you used to? Travel around, watch how people live, write down a little something— 'Then put <i>yourself</i> back into the story.'