[Garen LiLorian]

Foronîl sat in the open window, allowing the warm southern sun to bake his face and body. He luxuriated in the feel of it, stretching like a cat. As soon as Rave and the others were finished packing, he'd be saying farwell to it for far too long.

A puffing and blowing on the stairs alerted Foronîl to the presence of another.
"Yes?" He snapped, not bothering to turn around.
"P-pardon, lord. Did you want the red cloak packed, or was it to be left here?" The voice was timorous and small, and issued from a boy who could be no more than eleven. Foronîl regarded him coldly.
"You have a list, have you not?" He asked, in a deceptively calm manner, and, not waiting for the lad's response, turned back to the window.
"W-w-well... Erm. My lord, I... uh, that is to say, the list."
"Stop blathering and speak, child."
"I lost it." The boy looked terrified, and Foronîl stared at him as you might a particularly loathsome bacterium. The child gulped, and refused to meet the older man's eye.

"You... lost it." Foronîl mused, almost to himself. "Then, what might you do in this situation. Ah. You might ask my steward. You might ask my wife. You might even ask Grayson the butler. Or, I suppose, if you were particularly brave, you could come up here and disturb me. Are you particularly brave, boy?"
The lad trembled. Foronîl locked eyes with him. "Well?"
"Yes. I mean no. I mean, by your leave, lord!" And the mousy boy, without waiting for a reply, turned and vanished with startling speed.

Foronîl watched him go speculatively. He turned back to his window, watching the waves break on the beach. He was going to miss this.