Lord Jerrath sits at a rectangular coffee table with The Fall etched in gold. Its surface glimmered in the flickering time candle which reads half-black. Angling his body to not gaze directly at Lady Dal-Raseay. Every few flickers, she would turn in his direction, bat her eyelashes and twitter like some insane Moki.
The sound scrapes against his eardrums like dead tree branches haunting an old window and he hopes, like an insane Moki, she will fly into a window after some pretty bauble promptly snap her neck.
Of course, Lady Eluindara will not bestow him such luck. Damn curse.
He pours a bit of cream into his black tea, adds a cube of sugar and stirs slowly, prolonging the conversation, mainly with Lady Dal-Raseay. After his polite refusal, five moons turn ago, he thought she would concede. Alas, she continues to be a seasonal thorn under his fingernails.
