Raistlin was sitting at his huge desk, cluttered with notes and books -- mostly those with modern bindings, because science -- but some with weathered spines from his own shelves. He was scribbling more notes and barely glanced up, stringy white hair hanging over his forehead as he wrote at speed, quill loudly scratching each line.

One got used to the sound. Like a loud keyboard, perhaps.

"By the fire."

And indeed, there was a tray on a small endtable, loaded down with cooked meat and cheese and bread. Standard fare. A full bottle of wine, and a fresh pitcher of water, and a few clean cups. None of it looked to have been more than very slightly picked at, if at all.