Chaucer sat silently and solemnly at the table. It reminded him of an old painting he had once seen, where all the lower classes got together during winter and had big feasts. He supposed he should at least make a weak attempt to put aside his social differences - he would need to find a replacement for his cousin, that was a fact.

Although there was something romantically tragic about a solitary poet, wandering through the stone walls of a castle.... melancholy in his isolation...

Eyes glazed over in fantasy, he appeared to be intently staring at a gold fork to his left. With a sudden break in concentration, he looked about with a slightly alarmed expression before setting his eyes to his uniform. This tie... it's just like everyone's tie! How are people supposed to know I have a marvellous wit and flair for dialogue when I AM WEARING THE SAME TIE!? Flustered, Chaucer made a complicated fold and secured it with a dress pin (he always carried on in his pocket) and decided to procure a brooch later on. It wasn't any thing he would normally have consented to, but desperate times...