The First Cycle of Kalendryas
Season of Winter
It wasn't often that Iseult found herself out and about in the evenings, at least not these darkenings. She had far too many things to do, too many things to get settled, over the upcoming cycles as she prepared to pack up and leave Jaedaxia. There was the wedding to consider, the wedding gift she was making, the globes that Straylor wanted to smash and destroy. She had to make money. She had to work. All of these things added up to a woman who was consumed with organizing and hashing out what she needed or wouldn't need and, as a result, could sell. But it was nice to get out, even if getting out did not entail actual socialization.
That darkening Iseult was settled at a table, lounging in a chair with her usual disregard for posture, her long legs sprawled to avoid the aisles and other patrons, while still allowing her to find comfortable in not scrunching up the bony appendages. Leaning back against the head board of the chair, she had a snub of charcoal nudged between her pointer and her middle finger, wiggling it idly as she stared at a paper in front of her. Not a drawing, just a sloppily scrawled list and jotting of notes that she had decided she needed to work on. She made a slight, thoughtful little noise, and leaned forward, scratching out a line and and writing in something new next to the crossed line, muttering when the parchment stuck to a sticky spot on the table.
"Your food, mademoiselle."
Iseult looked up as a woman hovered over her, glancing at the table in indication that the half-breed would have to move a little or risk having whatever she was working on ruined by whatever the woman had. The glassblower shifted back again, straightening a little in her chair to move her legs out of anyone's way and waited as the woman settled the place, covered in food in front of her. She muttered a brief thanks and didn't watch the woman depart. She didn't turn to her food and start picking at it, rather squinted at her list, scrutinizing it almost irritably, gnawing at her lower lip.
At length she carefully folded the paper and tucked it under the edge of her plate and sat back to start picking at the food. Picking being the appropriately chosen word for she literally plucked her food--fish and vegetables--apart before finally selecting pieces and nibbling at them. She was never one to have a great appetite, if much was evidenced by her waif-like frame, her limbs more angled than rounded. At her elbow was a mug of cider, which she sampled more than her food. She was in no rush to eat, taking her time, keeping to herself, and occasionally peeking at her list.