Ramu Hornwell was a satyr, a huge Outworlder man with his Eosorean heritage shown by his goat-horned brow, his long tail and the thick, coarse hair lining his lantern jaw. He had risen fast in the agency and, rumor had it, been none too scrupulous in his methods of doing so. Hornwell had a reputation for ruthlessness, an endless capacity for hard work, and a love of high-end tailored clothing that bordered on the fanatical.

Today, he was expensively turned out as usual. His pale cream shirt was rolled up to the elbows, showing his powerful forearms. On the skin of his arms, a pattern of neat scarring showed pale against the dusky red skin. He wore a neatly-fitted navy tie complete with a gleaming silver engraved tie pin that had probably cost him more than a month of Amanda’s salary. His dark gray Armani suit jacket hung from a hanger on the back of the door.

Behind Hornwell’s desk, two floor-to-ceiling windows running with rain showed a view of the buildings beyond and the road below; gray concrete walls, warmly lit office windows, and the street thronged with hurrying pedestrians and slow-moving mid-day traffic. The effect was impressive, and Amanda worked hard not to feel intimidated by his massive presence.

“You called me in, sir?” Amanda Fallon said as she stepped up in front of the massive desk of the Director of the EDI.

“I did, Agent Fallon,” Hornwell said brusquely. He’d been working on some papers in a folder on his desk, but now he closed it and pushed it to one side. He took off his reading glasses and set them down on the desk with a sharp tap, then leaned back in his chair, eyeing Amanda intently. He waved one big, fur-backed hand. “Have a seat.”

Amanda did so, settling herself into one of the pair of leather chairs opposite Ramu Hornwell’s desk. The leather creaked as she did so.

When the Director didn’t speak immediately, Amanda looked around, taking in the scene. Hornwell’s office was plush—the need to maintain an unimpressive image didn’t extend to the office of the higher-ups—and it contained more memorabilia of Eosor than the archives of most arcane collectors. A pair of curved Eorsorean combat knives gleamed on a wooden stand in one corner. On top of a filing cabinet, a stuffed lizard that looked like a miniature, cat-sized dragon reared up in what looked like an imitation of takeoff. The whole place was littered with other strange and unusual nicknacks, too many to take in. She’d have needed a whole morning at least, and an encyclopedia of Eosorean culture, to fully appreciate everything.