Silas

The Hoard

• The Glasses Square frame. Old. Prescription. They're used mostly for reading, though he rarely takes them off and his eyes have suffered for it. He needs a new prescription, says that he will, one of these days. That day never seems to come. The Pipe Briar. Victorian. Worn. A half-bent taper pipe, sat on his desk decoratively. It's rare that he smokes, but when he does, the smell of burley hangs thick on him. A small comfort to pair with whiskey while he works. The Journal Leather. Ink-stained. Locked. A collection of his experiences, his past, his history. The lock on it is a wicked thing invented to keep even talented lockpickers out. He guards his stories viciously from those unknown or distrusted.

  The Ring Gold. Signet. Ancient. He presses the crest on it into wax when sealing letters to an old friend. It's a heraldry from some old and once-rich English family from centuries ago. When asked, he claims it came from an antique shop. The Statue Carved. Sentimental. Treasured. A small carving of an Amphiptere dragon, a gift from a treasured friend, who owns its twin. It always sits on his desk where he can see it, or run fingertips over the polished wood. It smells faintly of ambergris. The Perfume Gifted. Rationed. Coveted. Another gift from that treasured friend. The bottle is small, glass and delicate, though also covered in a light layer of dust, its contents treated as gold. The base notes carry the heavy smell of ambergris.