[It is foolish to even entertain the idea that she may call on him before he calls on her, but he does anyway. Not until the last possible moment of course, that was not his way, but as near as he was likely to get. Then, with the responsibility solely at his feet, he set about to doing what he would need to do. He did not need to tidy his rooms, for they were already tidy, but he did make some attempt at making the more fit for company, when he wasn't doing the work that truly did take up most of his day. And then, when it seemed opportune, he gathered the necessary supplies, and considered how to issue the invitation.
Directly seemed far too direct and far too- presumptuous. Demanding. So he settles instead on the least direct method this place allowed him and coaxed the station into inviting her. There would always be a door that would lead down toward the deeper recesses of the station, where he found some amount of rest away from the loud minds of the younger hosts.
The hall terminates at a door familiar to her, simple and styled precisely as a door on the station would be- if there were other doors- behind which lies the first of his rooms. The entry, the low couch, the heavy desk. Beyond that there is his bed, tucked behind another entrance way, and to the left of that a space not often used- another open doorway. It's in front of it that Prince stands, wearing a somber colored tunic that's austerity is undone by too many buttons, too much piping, a silken band about his middle. It isn't quite what his people had worn, but it is near enough. The concept is the same. It also feels as though it fits him poorly, but he knows that is only from disuse.]
Cathaway- [a simple greeting accented with a shallow bow and an outheld hand-] I hope I am not interrupting.
no subject
Directly seemed far too direct and far too- presumptuous. Demanding. So he settles instead on the least direct method this place allowed him and coaxed the station into inviting her. There would always be a door that would lead down toward the deeper recesses of the station, where he found some amount of rest away from the loud minds of the younger hosts.
The hall terminates at a door familiar to her, simple and styled precisely as a door on the station would be- if there were other doors- behind which lies the first of his rooms. The entry, the low couch, the heavy desk. Beyond that there is his bed, tucked behind another entrance way, and to the left of that a space not often used- another open doorway. It's in front of it that Prince stands, wearing a somber colored tunic that's austerity is undone by too many buttons, too much piping, a silken band about his middle. It isn't quite what his people had worn, but it is near enough. The concept is the same. It also feels as though it fits him poorly, but he knows that is only from disuse.]
Cathaway- [a simple greeting accented with a shallow bow and an outheld hand-] I hope I am not interrupting.