[He is sitting at a desk that he has, for all intents and purposes, taken over. Books are scattered across it, sheafs of paper weighted down with whatever he had on hand with which to do so. He is reading a book - or more specifically, he is studying a book. Every now and then he'll jot down something on a piece of paper set beneath his right hand, in almost immaculate Cyrillic. He keeps this up for a while until, sufficiently stumped by a word, he gets up from his desk to go find a proper dictionary.
James moves with the sort of grace you can only acquire from years on a rolling shipdeck, but it's not infallible. He certainly doesn't expect to round a corner and nearly collide with a lad of maybe fourteen summers if he's a damn day.
He frowns slightly.]
Apologies.
[He considers that to be the End of It, and reaches above the lad's head for the dictionary in question.]
wildcard! colonel mustard in the library with a marlinspike
James moves with the sort of grace you can only acquire from years on a rolling shipdeck, but it's not infallible. He certainly doesn't expect to round a corner and nearly collide with a lad of maybe fourteen summers if he's a damn day.
He frowns slightly.]
Apologies.
[He considers that to be the End of It, and reaches above the lad's head for the dictionary in question.]