[What a tragedy. Gathering his heavy fur lined cloak around him, Ilya Mor leans forward in his seat and touches his partner's hand where it's draped thoughtlessly across his thigh.] My wind, it seems I've made a terrible mistake and now have obligations. Forgive my absence?
[Gris Syn tips her head toward him, still clearly listening to the conversation she's in the middle of. Her bead black eyes give the Carbauschians a swift evaluation, then diverts back.] I'll see you tonight.
Lovely. [He sweeps her hand from his thigh, kisses it, and tucks it cheerfully under the edge of the thick blanket draped across her lap. Then Ilya Mor sweeps upward, his heavy cloak swirling about his legs and the beetle shell embroidery of his coat glinting in the brazier light. Two other Meradan - bodyguards of some kind, or young officers minor enough to find themselves in possession of the duties of one - separate from their company when they spot him rising.]
Come along. It's colder than I like here anyway.
[It's a quick jaunt over toward the Meradan tents of the camp. The tent Ilya Mor and company leads the hosts to is large, and sectioned into two chambers inside: something that's clearly a casual antechamber, the rest some mysterious private chamber that takes up half the tent and is hidden behind a heavy curtain. It's warm here, humid even thanks to boiling water, and the Meradans all shed their heavy cloaks with great cheer. Chairs are provided. Drinks are poured. Ilya Mor doesn't sit, but only because he seems tired of being so idle.]
no subject
Ah, politics.
[What a tragedy. Gathering his heavy fur lined cloak around him, Ilya Mor leans forward in his seat and touches his partner's hand where it's draped thoughtlessly across his thigh.] My wind, it seems I've made a terrible mistake and now have obligations. Forgive my absence?
[Gris Syn tips her head toward him, still clearly listening to the conversation she's in the middle of. Her bead black eyes give the Carbauschians a swift evaluation, then diverts back.] I'll see you tonight.
Lovely. [He sweeps her hand from his thigh, kisses it, and tucks it cheerfully under the edge of the thick blanket draped across her lap. Then Ilya Mor sweeps upward, his heavy cloak swirling about his legs and the beetle shell embroidery of his coat glinting in the brazier light. Two other Meradan - bodyguards of some kind, or young officers minor enough to find themselves in possession of the duties of one - separate from their company when they spot him rising.]
Come along. It's colder than I like here anyway.
[It's a quick jaunt over toward the Meradan tents of the camp. The tent Ilya Mor and company leads the hosts to is large, and sectioned into two chambers inside: something that's clearly a casual antechamber, the rest some mysterious private chamber that takes up half the tent and is hidden behind a heavy curtain. It's warm here, humid even thanks to boiling water, and the Meradans all shed their heavy cloaks with great cheer. Chairs are provided. Drinks are poured. Ilya Mor doesn't sit, but only because he seems tired of being so idle.]
Now, what's this offer?