<div class="floatleft">(https://scontent-dfw5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/fr/cp0/e15/q65/35361796_5254466324615447_133453335490461696_o.jpg?_nc_cat=107&amp;efg=eyJpIjoidCJ9&amp;_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-2.xx&amp;oh=ed0b71f4ee12f2d595fe17967b4800e6&amp;oe=5CF6CDFB)<div align="center"><strong>Brigitte Noone Cuccioli </strong></div></div><br/>Brigitte lounged in her chair, her (fairly) rigidly monitored program of stimulants and alcoholism coupled with years of rigorous dramatic training left her sedated but alert. She dressed like a vagabond with an good eye for fashion, mixing white faux fox with a wrap dress stained a garish shade of violet. Atop that she wore a black vest of peasants leather. It was the sort of ensemble a child playing dress up might select, but with her regal bearing, Brigitte managed to make it seem exotic.<br/><br/>Despite her aforementioned “years of rigorous dramatic training”, this was to be her first time actually on stage. Before her “incident”, she had long been a patron of the arts as well. Mostly the comedies... and so as she lazily watched the man in the chair argue with himself, she found herself engaged in the routine as he rehearsed his one man vaudeville.<br/><br/>When the elven girl interrupted, asking for advice on an esoteric satire, Brigitte did what she did best. She sat still and looked pretty. That wasn’t to say she did not possess a keen mind, so much as, her insight into “Schrmef's Dialogues” was likely more damaging than helpful. The scant fistful of facts she remembered was that the author’s name started with an H or a K and that there were quite a lot of them. As to their contents, what little story she did remember had congealed in a twisted lump in the dim corner of her brain.<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button"> History 11</div><div class="spoiler_body">Roll Result: Brigitte rolled: 1d20, adding 3 to the total<br/>Comment: History Check<br/>Result: 8, <br/>Total: 11 </div></div><br/><br/>Brigitte was fairly certain there was a horse in the tale...<br/><br/>As the poor girl began to look about like a cornered animal on the verge of bolting, Brigitte decided to offer the sage advice of her own experience, “The best thing I find about reciting esoteric works is that most intellectuals in the crowd are pseudo-intellectual and so as long as you tell it well, no one will remember if it was a garden or pool in the original adaptation.” She pauses as if something occurred to her, “Except that one odd duck in the crowd or at the party who smells like musty books and jism, whose favorite tome happens to be the one you’re talking about. He’s always there, even if it’s a different one every time. But no one likes that fellow, in any event, so everyone will WANT to believe you’re right!”<br/>