The negotiations wrap by early afternoon, and the otter-kin chief pumps Lucien's hand so hard he nearly dislocates it, practically vibrating with excitement over everything the trade route promises, and doubly so over the news that the Shadowfang tribe has finally, officially been brought to heel.
"No more fees. No more threats on the water," the chief says, wiping at his eyes with the back of one paw. "You've no idea what that means to us."
Lucien just grins, entirely too pleased with himself, and claps the man on the shoulder.
What delights him considerably more, though, is the discovery that otter-kin throw themselves into celebration with the same single-minded enthusiasm they apply to everything else. Any excuse serves, a trade deal, a sunny afternoon, the simple fact that Tuesday exists, and their excuse of choice always seems to circle back to the same jug of amber, home-brewed rum they guard with the fierce, possessive pride of a dragon guarding its hoard.
