[There's no answer for some time. Not an egregious stretch, given Leto's present activity and all its demands (no doubt he's snipped at more than once for thumbing at that book with measuring tape tucked taut against lithe contours), but by the time he's nearly finished, through an open store window letting in the thick, balmy heat of the Jewel Coast this time of year, there comes a cascade of fluttering wings— and a dark, overly large crow who slams down hard across the sill in landing. A discerning twitch of its wings, its head, jerking once, twice— surveying the scene it's fluttered into out of one eye before the next— a redsilk bundle tied off with a slip of parchment and a small phial caught within its talons.
no subject
And then it squawks at Fenris. Loudly.]