Brahm Stoker

Paris was nowhere to be found – Larten assumed the elderly Prince was still
asleep – but a middle-aged man with a beard was sitting at one of the tables,
writing in a notebook. He hailed Larten and invited him over. As Larten
cautiously sat, the man said, “You’re Master Skyle’s friend, aren’t you?”
Larten relaxed. “You know Paris?”

“Oh, yes,” the man beamed. “My name’s Abraham, but please call me
Bram.”

Larten gave his own name, shook hands and accepted the mug of ale he
was offered.

“What are you writing?” Larten asked.

“Just a few ideas for a story I’m researching.”

“You write stories?” Larten was interested. He had met several authors
over the decades and found them a curious bunch.

“Novels, mostly. You might have heard of The Snake’s Pass, perhaps?”
Larten shook his head. “I am not a reader. I never learned.” He expected
the man to look surprised, maybe even sneer at him, but Bram only
shrugged.

“You might be better off. Writing is my life – on top of running a theater
– but I often think I’d have been more successful and a lot happier if I’d
never taken up a pen. The muse is a cruel mistress.”

***

The Saga of Larten Crepsley: Ocean of Blood, Chapter 20