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In all of his fonder memories, the most recent to come into light has left Aristotle somewhat restless. Upon finishing morning duties of patrolling, the auburn-tinted youth's mind wandered with his strolling, his legs working mindlessly as his thoughts travelled. There was a song on his tongue, foreign to those around him, but he held it down by clamping shut his maw. The last time he'd sang, he remembered, he'd been presented with such a collection of praises that he'd nearly fainted from the joy. Not only was his voice complimented, but as was his ability to chatter in the common French of his isle home. Amazement struck his fellow clanmates as they listened to the tilt of his speech, so much so that when he mulled over the occurrence in his head, an idea came to light, and he went to work.
Arriving somewhere in camp with a book and charcoal writing utensil in his possession, Aritotle buzzed with energy, a humble excitement radiating golden from his frame. The chill in the air did little to deter his excitement when he'd called to address those in proximity. "Would anyone like some lessons in French?" he would enquire airily, accented tone smooth as he spoke.
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