The rich mahogany of the Consul’s private study, high up in the Crème Republic’s Upper City, was filled with the glow of a desk lamp. Clotted Cream Cookie, immaculate even in the late hour, was reviewing a stack of sensitive documents. His fingers carefully separated a ledger detailing the recent and contentious proposals from House Oyster regarding maritime tariffs.

“Ah, Elder Oyster Cookie,” he murmured, addressing the parchment as if it were the Elder herself. "A bold move, leveraging the Lower City’s recent demand for greater seafood distribution to benefit only your coffers. Truly predictable.”