[P] tea for every occasion

[Isorath]

ISORATH ATROX MELIOR DULCISSIMA VERITAS MENDACIIS There is discord in the Dusk Court, while faces promoted a hopeful future, there is unsurity in their eyes they cannot hide from the winged Kirin. He had seen it too many times before to be immune, or too naive to miss it. The shock of Rannevig's abdication is a fresh wound in their hearts, and he is unsurprised. It is hard and bitter pill to swallow, but such is the way of life. It is cruel, and it is unfair. It raked it's claws on stability, thrust those unprepared into the eye of the storm without armor or wings to lift them to safety. It exalted those who never wished to be hero. Isorath had left the Grand Hall, a picture of porcelain and gold which floated across the floor as if walking on air. A perfect picture of grace and ethereal wonder. He had said he would provide tea, and so he would. Lord knows that the newly crowned Sovereign would need it. She had said so herself. Once he had been in a similar position to her, thrust into the spotlight of Sovereignty, forced to thrust out his wings to catch himself before he hit the ground. Would she catch herself? Or would she be doomed to spiral until her pale frame met the cold hard ground? For her sake, Isorath hoped her wings would spread to catch her magnificently. For now, he is focused on one simple thing. Strong tea and a place where they can breath easy. One of the Citadel's Balconies overlooking the cliff's is his chosen spot, fussing with the servants who flittered back and forth to bring a myriad of soft pillows and luxious blankets for them to rest upon. Their words leisurely and light hearted, despite the shake in their voice. Eventually, everything is set. The pristine silverware is seated on the dark wood of the table, along with a small selection of fruits and sweets he had collected from Denocte. The ornate box to the left of them, carved with dragons in various states of flight, housed his spirits of choice. The air is crisp, but warm despite the sea breeze and it carried the smell of perfume and incense which clung delicately to his frame, and burned from the holder perched on the stone railings. He'd already began to tend to the tea when he'd sent a messenger to request Florentine's presence, the emphasis placed on that the tea would be strong like she'd asked. Smoke wafted from the engraved spout in elegant plumes, until it could no longer cling to tangibility, and evaporated into nothingness. Yes, the tea would have to be strong indeed. @Florentine ♦︎