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You rehearse puns, portmanteaux, and extemporaneous poetry, pleased at the feeling it brings. [+Wit] "Come, whelp," Timshel says, approaching you after some time. "Regale me."

The presence of another practiced chatterer is an aid, though it is plainly evident as a matter of objective fact that his wit is notably less keen than yours. (The fact that he seems to feel the opposite further exemplifies his overall dullness.) Be that as it may, the practice is beneficial regardless. [+Wit]

That Evening