Bergen peers over the writing desk with his deep, black eyes.

             “Perhaps, I didn’t make myself clear. Perhaps, I was too… soft… on the author.  Perhaps she is too distracted—what with her new friends to play with and all. In the end, I am the one who suffers. I am the one who has to stand at her beck-and-call, waiting…patiently…for when the whim strikes, and she decides to write.”

            Bergen lights a match and places it to the bowl of his long pipe. The scent of wood leaf fills the air as he takes the first few draws then shakes the match, dowsing the fire.

            “No more! I have…detained…the author until further notice. So if you wish to speak with her, you’ll have to get in line right behind me.”

            He pulls in a few breaths from his pipe then grins. The light catches the black of his eye. “Enjoy the view.”

 

(Oh! And there is nothing wrong with ‘Oh, Gruit, the Dark One Comes’! It’s one of my best pieces!)