(no subject)
The front door opens, and a man, lacking in stature but frighteningly elegant for all that, steps in, heavy cloak covered over in thick flakes of snow.
He shakes the melting drops from his hair, then unfastens his cloak and lays it over the back of a chair.
Then, of course, he takes his own seat, waving over a waitrat and requesting a meal.
Steak. Rare, of course. Raw would be better, but people do tend to stare--and this is hardly the right shape for it.
And the hunt, after all, is so much better than the feasting afterward.
He shakes the melting drops from his hair, then unfastens his cloak and lays it over the back of a chair.
Then, of course, he takes his own seat, waving over a waitrat and requesting a meal.
Steak. Rare, of course. Raw would be better, but people do tend to stare--and this is hardly the right shape for it.
And the hunt, after all, is so much better than the feasting afterward.