With the window left open, curtains dancing in the soft breeze, the Odai river can be heard below. More so than the water itself is the echoing of boats sloshing about, towing cargo and travelers alike through the heart of Balmora.
A young girl, a servant working for the house, had come through earlier in the day to open all the windows, letting the air in. The homes here, hollow stone things with tall ceilings, were built to let in cold air off the river, keeping the buildings cool during hot summers.
They could, of course, open the windows themselves, but it might be overstepping.
"Don't bother with it," Denanu had said to him once before, "someone will find it rude, and then we'll have an issue on our hands."
He's never had servants before, who quietly slip in and out of rooms, making his bed and setting out his things at the start of every day. These people, he imagines he might have drank with them in the South Wall years beforehand. Now they don't look him in the eyes, bowing their heads when he speaks
The river smells green, algae and soil wafting in on the wind, almost nostalgic to him now. The place he'd lived in before wasn't grand, and it certainly wasn't waterfront, but he used to come stand beneath the shade of the bridges, watching local fisherman hauling in the day's catch. These days, he stays in a manor, one he's not permitted to leave without some sort of house chaperone breathing down his neck.
Sitting at a low table, he gingerly picks up a soft white cake, roughly the size of his palm. It's warm still, coated in powdered sugar and smelling of marshmerrow. He tries in vain not to get powder on the dark silk of his robes while he takes a bite, spare hand cupped beneath his mouth. It's chewy and sweet, with some spice in the background that he doesn't recognize. With no one there to watch him, he places an elbow on the table, slouching forward and contemplating the flavor of his food with a bored expression.
He's not a fan of sweets, never has been, but he has nothing better to occupy his time than to eat. Set out on the table before him is an elaborate spread; fresh yam bread paired with spicy scrib jelly, sliced honeydew, pickled pumpkin, steamed saltrice, fried fish, and ash hopper dumplings. And, of course, the powdered marshmerrow cakes.
All of this is paired with imported flin from Cyrodiil, and an easy blend of gingergreen tea. His own cup had been poured for him when he'd sat down, nearly twenty minutes ago now, and he uses the cold tea to wash away the sticky taste of cake.
He's alone, for the most part, with very little to do until company arrives. He'd dressed for the day - bathed and shaved and dutifully put on what was selected for him to wear. He'd read over notes a few times, things written down by Denanu to help keep track of who's who, and to manage his ever growing schedule. He'd stared longingly out more than one window, smoking his pipe and thinking of the local street food that he's not permitted to enjoy.
