At which moment a particularly conspiracy-innundated Achille Augustain Nadeau took the liberty to return to the bar.
“…Sean, about the tantalising prospect of that drink you failed to provide me with? Now, of course ami, considering that I did provide a slightly financial recompense for the wine offered, do you not appreciate that one should sow as they reap, no?” The administrator merrily declaimed, with the air of one who one who has unexpectedly won the lottery whilst consecutively flinging innumerable metaphorical cats at innumerable metaphorical ladders – indeed, quite ill-suited to the (barely) good-natured cursory remarks which he presently sniped at Sean, shield flickering reminiscently as he settled upon the conventional stool as a crow may alight upon its roost, bearing the worm mid-jaw.
“DeFrance if you will – what else? You know me immaculately, considering our mutual histories, hm?” The man murmured, scrutinising the pickled onions.
“…But enough talk, more wine, yes? Come now. Reward a man whose only thoughts are of success!”
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)