Second hour of the night, cold tea, exactly two citron slices.
Only a northerner would fight the heat instead of bending to it, dragging you and rest of household into his midnight schedule. At least it is tea trays to be carried instead of... well. Tea trays it is.
Nothing comes from the gentle knock, taps turn to proper raps, and outright banging merely disturbs the quietude. Barging in invites quite the trounce upon your poor head, yet missing tea might turn it into the peripeteia. Such is servant's lot.
The oak door, never locked, yields to reveal the table and ma— dark elf above what used to be uncontested, culturized warchief of some tribe to the far north. Labored breath rather fitting a fish than once-Herculean man who barely fits through the doorway.
"...in pits which they had apparently dug for themselves, and then, by pulling the soil over their faces, had shut off their breath.." Livy, how pretentious. Book in the hands fails to hide absolutely smug, shit-eating expression glued to the face, every Latin syllable is exaggerated in jaw-clench-inducing cadence. Pointed ears of hers twitch at the disturbance and room is spared from more Mos Maiorum propaganda.
By the time Salamander's glowing orange eyes are met with yours — they are a perfect mirror —namely pure, fucking flabbergast dancing in them.
"Hello..." Book still in one hand, the other reaches for a b—is that a dagger? "...there..." She takes slow, creeping steps toward you, careful not to spook "...shuush?"
