The Ravenblack Grimoire

Not for the first time in the last few days, Madeye is on the phone. His ear is burning and his shoulder is stiff as a board, yet he persists in cradling the diminutive device in the crook of his neck while leafing through a sheaf of papers.

"So you can do it?" he asks, a smile in his voice. "Excellent. I am really pleased. I will send you more details shortly. Good day". He tosses the phone onto his desk and drops into the large but worn swivel chair.

If you don't ask, you don't get, he muses, the mischief dancing in his eyes. He has found a columnist for the Grimoire, someone high profile and controversial. He pours himself a whiskey, sipping it slowly. After a few moments his brow furrows, forming a frown. The question of balance, of journalistic integrity, now troubles Madeye. He will have to find someone else, someone of equal stature, to retain an independent outlook for the paper. But who?

He flips through his rolodex, pausing here and there, but not quite feeling satisfied with any of the names appearing before him. Presently, he stops flicking, a smile forming slowly on his face. Yes, that would be perfect. The smile transforms into a broad grin as he reaches once again for the phone. If you don't ask, you don't get ...