Room 516, Thursday
The television had been dominated by people arguing about who was going to be the next king or queen of the country pretty much non-stop for days now, so Hyacinthe had retreated to his room to find something else to do. As entertaining as the television was ('twas like a world of plays on command!), he had noticed that a great deal of it could be oddly repetitive at times. What was with the show about breakfast foods that spent all their time weeping? Why was that a thing?
He had tried writing a letter to Phèdre, but could not think of anything he'd done in the past month or so worth the ink. So instead, he lounged on his bed, flipping through the Ecstatica, while debating who might be around that he could bother. He found himself missing Night's Doorstep fiercely; today would be the perfect day to visit the Cockerel with Emile and fleece visiting noble lads and lasses out of coin over a few hands of cards.
[Open, but possibly slow!]
He had tried writing a letter to Phèdre, but could not think of anything he'd done in the past month or so worth the ink. So instead, he lounged on his bed, flipping through the Ecstatica, while debating who might be around that he could bother. He found himself missing Night's Doorstep fiercely; today would be the perfect day to visit the Cockerel with Emile and fleece visiting noble lads and lasses out of coin over a few hands of cards.
[Open, but possibly slow!]