Pulling it free, he then sat down on his writing desk, pushing several books aside and leaning his phone against one pile to provide ample light to write by. He pulled out a quill from the drawer to his left, dipping it in an ink bottle and began scribbling away his notes. He had decided that writing in Irish was about as secure as he could get in writing things privately unless, for some Godforsaken reason, someone in this world spoke and read Irish too. It might be highly unlikely, but not something he could rule out entirely. He had already met far too many people who spoke English and way too many people who spoke French. Jacques was too much for anyone’s tolerance some days, after all. Sure, they didn’t know those languages by those names, but it was still surreal as all hell. Meanwhile, the griffons spoke a language unlike anything Handy knew from experience, the ones who didn’t speak Equestrian habitually due to proximity to the borders anyway. It was like this world existed in a natural environment of evolving languages and suddenly, out of nowhere, someone hit them over the head with the Latin alphabet and the Oxford Dictionary.