Eppur si Muove

Of Snow

I

The morning sun came over reddish rooftops and the smooth cobblestone of the road, while the city woke up from its slumber. Swirling between buildings and doors the stones also found their way to one elegantly crafted door which always amazed visitors and distant travelers. Beyond the hinges and wood, inside the somewhat small yet exceptionally decorated house, the smell of incense blended with a cold breeze from the outside. A pair of sheer, violet curtains moved gently while the air coming through the partly ajar window caressed them slowly.

A hot tea cup had been placed on a small, circular table and the steam coming from it danced on the surface of the still liquid just like an ice skater. The one who prepared it sat on a chair nearby wondering why in the deepest corners of his mind, he couldn't shake away the idea that the steam's movements should be accompanied by a song. He extended his hand towards the ring of the cup and paused again, not because it revealed some sort of metaphysical message – no, only just because the contents of that cup were still too hot to drink - both a blessing and a curse. He'd have more time to think about the upcoming day, plan his errands, plan his meetings. However, this deeply meditative circumstance that he found himself in was surreal. He drew his hand away from the cup and started playing with one of his shiny golden rings. As he was methodically and slowly spinning the ring on his finger, his eye settled on the rug, and then moved to the small window with the long curtains he so adored - another silent musical number happening inside his house at this early hour.

He couldn't help but think that the wind creeping in from outside was such a cruel and cold lover to his poor curtains–and yet, they danced. The curtains moved as the wind instructed... and they will be left hanging, lifeless when the wind decides to leave... only... only to welcome it again as soon as he barged into the house.

"Why is this morning so cold?" he flatly asked himself and the spell was broken. He straightened himself in his chair and took the ring of the cup again, taking a sip of the strong, delightfully aromatic tea. The temperature of the cup suggested he was a bit late with starting the day so he drove his hands through his somewhat curly, dark, shoulder length hair in a frustrated effort to tie it again so that some rebellious locks wouldn't leave the ponytail.

"Serves me right for using silk to tie my hair..." he thought in a semi-amused monologue, while also reaching for his notebook to finally start working. His dark eyes moved faster and faster over his notes. He had to see suppliers today. He had to check the big tome of transactions he kept at the shop. He had a lot of work to do. A business doesn't care that you were abducted and almost turned insane by a god. Thankfully, Vox Machina had been their brilliant selves again. He smiled. He'll have to congratulate them. He'll buy them a present... or make one. Ah, he'd figure it out, but not today. "Certainly not today" he thought and began scribbling in his notebook.

The wind didn't only play with the curtains, it also gently pressed against the robe of Allura Vysoren each step she took on the same cobblestone, her heels were making a sweet, soft sound in perfect dissonance with her heart. Its beats were bitter, heavy and intensified as she gazed upon the sharp and beautiful decorations of the door. Absentmindedly she knocked and just as absentmindedly, the voice on the other side said, "Come in!"

And there she was, going through what seemed to her the unknowing gates of an abyss she was about to create. The curtains moved upwards because of the draft she let in. Ignoring their lavish pleas and attempt to scare her away, she closed the door. They fell back to their position - acceptance.

She saw him writing in the notebook placed on his raised knee. The other extended foot showed off his expensive leather boots. Allura knew Gilmore never had a taste for cheap items, if he had a choice. And Gilmore always extended his arms towards the variety and the beauty of life. His robes always expressed the exact same thing, however, today, he wore his signature attire, which was always violet salwar pants and a shirt of the same color tucked into his golden belt.