[ It's at some awkward hour, where most people have either retreated to the quieter corners to rest, or have departed from the library to explore the larger castle area, that Mr. Tibbs is approached by a guest. Probably an unwelcome one.

Back before he and his fellow Shardbearers had been dismissed from the courtyard, Gen had shot the otter a brief glare -- clearly suspicious, but too physical drained to do anything about it. But now that he's feeling a little better (hungry, tired, a little frazzled from trying to acclimate to all the magic bullshit going on here), he might as well follow one of the only direct leads that comes to mind. ]

Hey. [ His bootsoles scuff against the flooring as he slinks his way over to where Mr. Tibbs is stationed, smoke trailing from his lips in a long plume as he exhales slowly, a cigarette held between his fingers. No need to waste time beating around the bush. ] So I've been meaning to ask -- what makes you so special, hm? Who'd you bribe to be the only one still walking and talking, here?