OOC: Going to see what Shayuri decides for Maya before continuing with those three.
Meanwhile:
[sblock=Crispin]
The offices of Zenobia Zanderholm are to be found in a square of buildings in the Heights district, built around a small fenced garden. These all seem to be the offices of various lawyers and solicitors, except for a tavern on the corner, the Jittery Quill. A bored young man sits outside this smoking a pipe.
Crispin easily fast talks and browbeats the Zanderholm clerk into a meeting with his mistress, despite the lack of appointment. In an office stacked high with books, behind a desk piled with paperwork, sits a stern-faced middle-aged woman. Her whitening hair is worn long and straight, framing a sour face. She peers at Crispin over half-moon spectacles.
"Yes?" she asks. "As you can see, I'm very busy. Make it quick, young man."
[/sblock]
Pleased that the destination wasn't as distant as it could have been, Crispin's senses are assailed by an assortment of notable things: the fresh scent of a well-kept garden, ink by the barrel, and the stiff and lingering scent of wax hewn throughout the air.
The lad at the door was of little importance. So little, in fact, that Crispin didn't even bother insulting receptionist (at least not too much so, at any rate) in his typical, tactile manner. No, no... the Jeggare Scion had much bigger fish to fry, and the pesky greeter only served to delay him a few minor seconds from his dutiful inquiry.
Books as high as the eye could see. It was a refreshing sight, and one Crispin hadn't expected to see in a place like Varisia; though to be fair, he hadn't truly expected many to be able to read on a collegial level to begin with. The well-aged scholarly madam at the pile idly reminded him of one of his professor's back in Cheliax, with her thick, round spectacles being the defining trait of her character. In this case, however, the reverse had been played -- thin, crescent-esque lenses dangling lifelessly over the nose of a local bookworm. Indeed, her mannerisms and bluntness only seemed to further remind the young stuck-up adventurer of his teacher, to which Crispin could honestly -- at least partially -- feel some common ground between the two; faint, but present.
"Very well." Jeggare begins, plodding forward a bit after the judgette had made her statement. Like a heavy rock dropped from above, or rolling thunder on a clear summer's day, Crispin drops the proverbial bombshell, letting the cards that scatter thereof land where they might as he uttered two powerful words with applicable blunt trauma force:
"Malacia Thrune."
