[open post, as proof of existence]
Raphael Theo Mandros sits near a window, his arms folded on a table. Near his elbow is a half-filled cup of tea, steam still rising from the liquid, and a still warm tea pot. In front of him is an open book (a book of poetry - Lord Byron, this time around), which lay forgotten on "When We Two Parted." The room is dimly lit by a single lamp - which makes no difference, really, as he's more focused on the stars outside than on the poem before him.
He's tired, though he does not look it. And he's distressed, though perhaps that's more clear from his posture. He could probably use some company, and someday if you ever have your own open post will return the favor.
He's tired, though he does not look it. And he's distressed, though perhaps that's more clear from his posture. He could probably use some company, and someday if you ever have your own open post will return the favor.