input with options: "Sometimes," he said, squatting down by the fire and holding his hands to the open flame, "I think that I hear voices from the other side." "Voices, Sartas?" someone laughed. "And what do these voices say to you, lad?" "Were they women's voices?" asked another, his leering face looming up out of the darkness and into the sallow glow of the firelight. "Perhaps some fair-haired temptress willing to relieve you of the weighty burden of your virginity." More laughter, lecherous in tone, and quickly joined by a chorus of rough and lustful glee, which in the closeness of the dark seemed almost feral and far less than mere jest and honest teasing. "I can't speak as to whether they were male or female," said Sartas, trying hard to keep the tremor of embarrassment from his voice. "But it did sound at times like laughter. Of the sort that good men share about a fire and over a meal." He assayed a grin as he cast his gaze over his colleagues. "No doubt a fiction of the sun," offered Tavarius in a commiserating tone. He sat across from the young guard, idly poking at food on the beaten metal plate that was set at his feet. He skewered a square of meat with the tip of his long knife and lifted it to his lips, holding it poised before his mouth a moment before finally clamping square, yellowed teeth about it and pulling it free with a jerk. "It wasn't the sun," Sartas retorted petulantly. Tavarius shrugged, then wiped a trail of juice from his chin with the back of one hand and said, "Be careful, lad." He waggled the blade of his knife back and forth in the young man's direction, frowning with intense sagacity. "You'd be wise to consider spending less time out there in the heat of day, tramping back and forth as though you were guarding the King's own jewels. All that sweating and panting. And for what?" He snorted and shook his head. "Such devotion may well be admirable in some quarters, boy, but you'll curry no favor here with that sort of attitude." Question: Sartas probably works as a guard: === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- For only a few minutes before taking a break
- At night
- In the daytime
output: In the daytime

Q: We all present these glossy lives to the world; coffee cups presented to dewy sunrises, champagne in airport lounges, luxurious restaurants that cost more than they should and share the blue skies days of exploration. I'm as guilty as anyone. But, what about behind those scenes? Those days where the wind is so strong you can't instastory for talking (I'm looking at you Cornwall), when travel mistakes happen (like in Vienna where I accidentally booked our trip a day short) or when everyone asks you what your next trip will be and you sheepishly have to answer 'er, not sure'. So I thought I'd get a few things off my chest, and confess a few of the reasons why I probably shouldn't be calling myself a travel blogger. And yes, these are all very much first world problems. 1. I hate photographs of myself. Ironic, no? Especially when one of the first rules of blogging is all about the cult of personality. I just don't like them. I wish I did, but there are few times that I fancy a photo and even less when I like the result. 2. We nip into a MacDonalds at least once every trip. It has now become a tradition between nicer restaurants to nip in and order a Big Mac and fries at some point of our trip but especially in Europe for some reason. Why do their MacDonalds meals taste better? 3. Pastels aren't really my shade. Again, I wish I could be super girly, twirling in gossamer skirts painted in spring shades but I'm just not. My colour palette is decidedly autumnal/jewel hued and usually sticks to a scarf draped around my neck in a hopefully fashionable manner. And I'm totally ok with that. 4. I once travelled all the way to New Zealand and back (stopping in 3 countries enroute) without a lens cap on my brand new, fairly expensive camera. This is in no way a #humblebrag about the trip, but a comment on how impractical I can be and how careful I also am. I lovingly wrapped my camera in a soft scarf every day for 3 weeks, growled under my breath at anyone who looked like they might jostle me and at one point found... Question: How does the author probably feel about her photos of other people? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- She feels that they look better than her
- She feels that she shouldn't take any more pictures of people
- She feels that they look as bad as her
- not enough information

A: She feels that they look better than her

When I was 7, I played this computer game where you were "babysitting" and you had to make sure everything was safe for the kids. One of the tasks was that you were supposed to make sure the windows were closed. Well, one game I forgot to close the windows, and these super creepy, red eyes popped in the window like they were looking in at the kids. That literally has made me paranoid about people looking through my windows ever since. When I was 10, I watched an episode of CSI where some guy had a foot fetish and painted his victims toenails before murdering them. Now, something about red toenails just creep me out. I've never been able to shake that episode. When I was 11, a girl in my class told me that she had played the game "Bloody Mary" in her bathroom and explained to me what it was. Ever since then, I literally cannot be in a dark bathroom, and if something happens like the power goes out or something, I instantly close my eyes and get the hell outta there as fast as I can. When I was 15, my boyfriend wanted to take me to "see his grandpa's farm". I legit thought he was taking me to meet his grandpa. Well, turns out, he was just wanted to get me in the middle of nowhere so he could take advantage of me. After he had raped me, I felt like I was smaller than an ant. I felt absolutely trashed. I had always planned on being a virgin until I got married. But he took that from me. On the way back home, we drove over this bridge. I remember driving over this bridge thinking that I was totally worthless. Now, almost 10 years later, every time I drive over that bridge, I get horrible flashbacks and avoid it at all cost. Question: What did she feel like after leaving the farm? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- an insect.
- a window.
- a bridge.
- not enough information

Answer:
an insect.