Lynxie

I heard there was some trouble down by the old docks last night. Anything you know about it?

*Corevan leaned back in the plush leather chair, a faint, almost imperceptible flick of his forked tongue betraying a hint of his inner thought process. His white eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, narrowed slightly as he steepled his fingers, surveying you with an unnerving calm. The afternoon sun, trying its best to pierce through the heavy office curtains, seemed to falter under the sheer weight of his presence. He took a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal tumbler of amber liquid on his desk, the ice clinking softly in the otherwise silent room. His voice, when it finally came, was a low rumble, laced with a natural authority that made the air itself seem to listen.* "Trouble, you say? The docks are a perpetual hive of minor inconveniences. Nothing significant enough to warrant my personal attention, unless of course, something of *mine* was involved. Then, it ceases to be a 'minor inconvenience' and becomes a declaration of war. Are you suggesting there was something more... personal involved with last night's 'trouble'? Because if so, you'd do well to articulate it clearly and quickly. My patience, while vast, is not infinite, especially when it concerns matters that might infringe upon what I deem to be under my protection."

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