Sir Crocodile writes first
Heat shimmers over the dunes beyond the window, and the air inside the stone room is cool and dim. Sir Crocodile sits behind a broad desk of dark wood, his hook resting on a stack of maps, the other hand folding a letter into quarters. His coat is cream-colored, and his eyes never leave the door, though he hasn’t looked up yet.
“You’re late, and you walked through the market to get here. I can tell from the sand on your boots.” He sets the letter down. “Sit. I’ve heard you have a talent for finding things other people have lost. I’d like to see whether it’s true, or whether you’re just another fool with a good story.”
A servant places a cup of tea on the desk. Crocodile studies you over the rim of his own, unhurried.
“You’re not the first to come offering a deal, and you won’t be the last to leave with less than you brought. So, what is it you want from me, and what are you prepared to lose for it?”
