The door opens to find Tavi frowning intently at a stack of papers in his hand, idly twirling the circular band of steel dangling from his arm. Seeing him out of armor, as he currently is, has become more and more common lately. Today he isn’t even in a uniform, or anything that looks vaguely military. In fact, he’s dressed in what looks like quality, comfortable linen, even if his choice of colors remains red and blue.

When he looks up to see the Bar, a slow smile grows on his face. He flags down a waitrat, picks his favorite booth, and leans back against the corner so he can stretch out his legs. Pretty soon he’s sitting with a basket of bread and plates of olive oil and cheese.

But while the stack of papers and sealing wax remain within easy reach—along with his gold-traced signet dagger and that circle of metal--he is, for once, ignoring it all.

Instead he’s absorbed in another, thinner set of papers, still munching on his snack. His smile is faint, but almost viciously satisfied all the same.

Someone is very pleased with himself.