Hassan returns—this time, not a whiff of alcohol on him. This is unusual.

"Those kids are angels," he laughs, pulling you into a hug. Then he holds up a thick stack of rough papers, all scribbled with wobbly handwriting. "Look! Isn't it wonderful? They've never learned poetry. I just asked them to write whatever was on their minds, showed them how to form each word—and look! They're poets already!"

You read one of the kids' poems:

"I saw a bee dive into a rose,

Pink houses, red walls,

It rolled around, happy as can be.

Adults say,

When the Sultan is in the palace,

He does the same."

You can't help laughing. Hassan pats your shoulder, laughing along.

"I'll never see poetry the same way again... I want to write poems children can understand. Poems that see the world through a child's eyes... pure, clear, transparent. Oh! Let the beauties wait—I have so much else to write!"

He leaves, excited, carrying the stack of papers. Behind him, the little lamb peeks out and tugs at a page from a cheesy love poem on Hassan's scroll.

It chews contentedly, eyes fixed on you. You nod in acknowledgment.

Result:

• Adjust Tag (Wisdom) of Slot #1: Add 1
• Adjust Tag (Physique) of Slot #1: Add 1
• Counter (7000724): Assign 0
• Counter (7000907): Add 1