My quartermaster just waltzed into my writing den and proposed a schedule that included planning sessions for a possible return to the land of buckthorn and honey weiss. I nearly cane-whipped Auswald for interrupting my thoughts. The sheer audacity of the man! I was betwixt a plot and a nap, nearly finished with a rough draft of my next novel, prior to the typing stage and he barges in all a-flutter over schedules and time tables! It's my expedition, is it not? It shall leave when I say and not a moment earlier nor later.
I should not be too hard on Auswald, his disturbance brought some fond memories to the forefront of my cognition and for that I shall have a sumptuous dinner made that he will serve me and enjoy most fragrant lovelies and an abundance of pungence. This meal will sate me and serve to enhance his savoring of whatever broth and noodles the cook prepares for the staff. I suppose I should have Auswald perform an inventory of the expedition's equipment and oil my armaments. I shall retire to my den and begun anew with my memoirs.