Erhard Drache removed his black leather glove off of Harald's shoulder. The elder pressed his cane against the stairs as he steps up. Tap and step. Tap and step. The metal against the wood echoed in the empty chambers, safe for the man who still stood there. Erhard takes a glance behind him to see Harald regain some semblance as he steps across the floor to the spiral staircase which would take the man to his personal chambers. Each step echoed just as the cane had. The steps from beneath the mans feet moved through the entirety of the estate. Finally he ascends the stair case out of view.
In this time Erhard had found his way into one of the lounges of the Drache estate. A servant approaches as the elder requests a fresh pot of kaffee be brewed for himself. As the servant leaves the old man props his cane against the structured wooden table before him. Erhard props himself up further onto his seat. The cushioning not overly stuffed, nor under stuffed. It was in the middle in terms of how stuffed it was. In short this was a fitting sofa to rest ones aching body upon. The velveteen fabric which covered the surface was a fine touch as well as it only amplified the comfort. Yes. This sofa was quite nice, but Erhard could care less as it was the nearest sofa so naturally he rested upon it.
The kettle whistled with a wild scream. It's cry was not the only one in the estate at the time. Despite their best efforts to avoid causing a scene, members of the house staff were in tears. Erhard heard all of them and rather than bring it to their attention simply recited poetry to himself. Poems of hanging traitors during wartime and of marching through fields of wild flowers. Some written by himself, others by acquaintances he has made during his time of service in the Regalian Army of which he pondered what they would require of the aged Field Marshal next. But the thought fades as he continues to recall his poems by memory.
A servant with reddened eyes steps forth and rests the cup upon the table. The cup did not contain the filigree and unnecessary design which the Ithanian variant bares. It was plain and simple in terms of design. A white porcelain shine with a tapered, curved handle. Erhard continues reciting his poetry paying no mind to the hired hand who delivers his preferred beverage. The servant, familiar with the lack of response curtseys and exits the lounge without a moments hesitation. The elder Drache, alone again, takes his cup to his lips. He blows gently over the brown ripples before taking a small sip. He lets forth a simple sigh, content with the heat and bitterness of the drink. Bliss. Perfect unadulterated bliss.
In this time Erhard had found his way into one of the lounges of the Drache estate. A servant approaches as the elder requests a fresh pot of kaffee be brewed for himself. As the servant leaves the old man props his cane against the structured wooden table before him. Erhard props himself up further onto his seat. The cushioning not overly stuffed, nor under stuffed. It was in the middle in terms of how stuffed it was. In short this was a fitting sofa to rest ones aching body upon. The velveteen fabric which covered the surface was a fine touch as well as it only amplified the comfort. Yes. This sofa was quite nice, but Erhard could care less as it was the nearest sofa so naturally he rested upon it.
The kettle whistled with a wild scream. It's cry was not the only one in the estate at the time. Despite their best efforts to avoid causing a scene, members of the house staff were in tears. Erhard heard all of them and rather than bring it to their attention simply recited poetry to himself. Poems of hanging traitors during wartime and of marching through fields of wild flowers. Some written by himself, others by acquaintances he has made during his time of service in the Regalian Army of which he pondered what they would require of the aged Field Marshal next. But the thought fades as he continues to recall his poems by memory.
A servant with reddened eyes steps forth and rests the cup upon the table. The cup did not contain the filigree and unnecessary design which the Ithanian variant bares. It was plain and simple in terms of design. A white porcelain shine with a tapered, curved handle. Erhard continues reciting his poetry paying no mind to the hired hand who delivers his preferred beverage. The servant, familiar with the lack of response curtseys and exits the lounge without a moments hesitation. The elder Drache, alone again, takes his cup to his lips. He blows gently over the brown ripples before taking a small sip. He lets forth a simple sigh, content with the heat and bitterness of the drink. Bliss. Perfect unadulterated bliss.
