Quinch

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Quinch sat at the large round table in the Friendship School's library, staring at a book and scowling. The latter bit wasn't a new thing, of course, it was pretty much his default expression. The mostly-quiet atmosphere of the room was punctuated by the soft, barely perceptible tapping of a boot against a chairleg, the rustle of turning pages and an ongoing soft growl.

Medieval technology sucked.

The list of questions was in front of him. He knew a few off the top of his head - probably - but the rest were in a pile of books chronicling the adventures and disasters of a handful of apparently historically relevant ponies. Somewhere.

He lifted the book over his head and leaned forward. And further more.

Finally, the silence was punctuated by the sound of a forehead hitting a table.

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