"Truly? A realist? Well the Jacobins were realists and they had excellent clothing I find, quite a treat to look at. But then..." Chaucer tilted his head in contemplation, his brown hair flounced to the one side as though each piece knew how to best fall in place, "... they were quite murderous, the whole lot. Wouldn't take a joke if you tied money to it from what I've read."
This time he knew better than to drift off into reverie again, though he couldn't help but briefly meander over the notion of an excellent waistcoat with a matching large-lapelled jacket. He soon snapped back when a thought occured to him: "What is there to even think about aside from fantasy?" Half-outraged, half-shocked, he looked over in curiosity at Avada. Indeed, what would he think about if he were to be a realist?
Bricks, dirt and breathing... ugh, what a bore. But I suppose the brick would be the more interesting of the three, when one ponders it's formation and colour. Or where it came from, like an old manor where a young woman pined away, because she was in love with a man she couldn't have. After her death, the place was left empty for a century and fell apart; it's stones scattered as a constant remin-- oh. No, that was no good. Too much wonder there, far too much. Maybe if he tried dirt...