“Isn’t she a beauty?” Avarice said he poured himself a tall drink, “you can smell the oak barrels she was* aged in at first pop of the bottle. Oak, Phlox. That’s how you know you’ve got a good scotch. Sure you won’t have a drink?”

“I’m afraid I don’t drink, Avarice,” Phlox replied meekly. He could smell the dust coming off of the old books in the room. It was filled with everything that you would expect a man like Avarice to have; dark woods and expensive antique papeweights. Things that Phlox himself never understood the appeal of.

“What kind of a businessman doesn’t drink?” Avarice scoffed.

“That’s the problem,” Phlox chuckled a little as he spoke,  “you keep mistaking me for a businessman.”