NERON
the hailstorm
”Of course I was. You are late, by my estimations. What held you up?” Neron inquires, sliding one of the glasses across to Sunjata and running a long finger around the rim of his own. ”Oh, but the bullshit is the best part,” he objects, a note of mourning in his voice that does not match the smirk on his face. ”Very well, though. Weaver’s gone, Korbin has his own troubles, and he hired me, if you’d believe it.” The Hailstorm scoffs, taking a generous sip of the whiskey.
”He doesn’t have the inclination to run the place, so here I am.” Spreading his hands, he gazes around the Kraai; dark and red and rich and velvety, everything Neron isn’t. He kind of likes it, though. ”Why, is there a problem?”
”He doesn’t have the inclination to run the place, so here I am.” Spreading his hands, he gazes around the Kraai; dark and red and rich and velvety, everything Neron isn’t. He kind of likes it, though. ”Why, is there a problem?”
