The soft, telltale scratching of a quill on paper was punctuated by the rhythmic percussion of the chronometer ticking through its gears. Nero's office was silent save for the oddly harmonic presence of these two sounds. The face of the chronometer indicated that it was quite late in the night, and yet the smuggler had yet to cease working.
The paperwork was gargantuan amount of letters that needed to be sent never seemed to diminish. First was organising payment for informants, then certain authorities would need to be fed misinformation, and then another negotiation with a client for this or that, and all of that wasn't even taking into account the amount of bookkeeping needed to falsify the info on the smuggler's various front companies.
I should seriously consider a secretary. Or three. Nero flexed his hand briefly before folding the last letter, slipping it into an envelope before placing it on a respectable stack on his desk.
I'll just send these tomorrow, came the idle thought. His desk finally cleared, Nero's attention was brought to the small wrapped package sitting on the corner of his desk.
Garalt had passed it to him earlier that day, saying that Roen had brought it by. In his frenzied workaholicism, the smuggler hadn't deigned to open it yet. Was it for some kind of event? He pulled the small note out from under the simple-looking ribbon, silently mouthing the words as he read it. The Starlight Festival. It's just about that time of year, isn't it? Nero frowned slightly as he realised that he hadn't gotten anything in return for the paladin. What would she like? Something practical? No, something a bit more sentimental. Jewelry, maybe? Shoes? I never was very good at picking out gifts, he thought rather sardonically to himself.
That would have to be rectified, but first...
The ripping of wrapping paper sounded far too loud in the quiet office, and it was with some measure of surprise that the Hyur found himself with a small smile on his face. He would recognise that style anywhere: the strokes of the quill was unhurried, each line and curve deliberate and steady. The sketch itself was simple, more of an idle thought than a piece with genuine effort, but its simplicity captured the essence of the man who had created it.
There was always another side.
He leaned his head on one hand to steady himself as he stared at the albatross and an unexpected tide of emotions came to his mind. Sadness at the loss of his first mate. Admiration for the image and the frame. Anger that Daegsatz had been taken from him...and though he would never admit it, some slight joy that someone else was thinking of him.
The paperwork was gargantuan amount of letters that needed to be sent never seemed to diminish. First was organising payment for informants, then certain authorities would need to be fed misinformation, and then another negotiation with a client for this or that, and all of that wasn't even taking into account the amount of bookkeeping needed to falsify the info on the smuggler's various front companies.
I should seriously consider a secretary. Or three. Nero flexed his hand briefly before folding the last letter, slipping it into an envelope before placing it on a respectable stack on his desk.
I'll just send these tomorrow, came the idle thought. His desk finally cleared, Nero's attention was brought to the small wrapped package sitting on the corner of his desk.
Garalt had passed it to him earlier that day, saying that Roen had brought it by. In his frenzied workaholicism, the smuggler hadn't deigned to open it yet. Was it for some kind of event? He pulled the small note out from under the simple-looking ribbon, silently mouthing the words as he read it. The Starlight Festival. It's just about that time of year, isn't it? Nero frowned slightly as he realised that he hadn't gotten anything in return for the paladin. What would she like? Something practical? No, something a bit more sentimental. Jewelry, maybe? Shoes? I never was very good at picking out gifts, he thought rather sardonically to himself.
That would have to be rectified, but first...
The ripping of wrapping paper sounded far too loud in the quiet office, and it was with some measure of surprise that the Hyur found himself with a small smile on his face. He would recognise that style anywhere: the strokes of the quill was unhurried, each line and curve deliberate and steady. The sketch itself was simple, more of an idle thought than a piece with genuine effort, but its simplicity captured the essence of the man who had created it.
There was always another side.
He leaned his head on one hand to steady himself as he stared at the albatross and an unexpected tide of emotions came to his mind. Sadness at the loss of his first mate. Admiration for the image and the frame. Anger that Daegsatz had been taken from him...and though he would never admit it, some slight joy that someone else was thinking of him.
