Time continued to languidly move on, his days continued to be mundanely peaceful, and Vortas continued to be awful. Yazad was none too thrilled about the cold weather, or the fact that his skin was suffering the dreadful decrease in moisture that came with such weather. Small blessings: only he could see his own legs. This was a mercifully snow-free day following a somewhat less dreadful and sun-deprived day, so the amount of frozen slush was at a tolerated minimum. Still, every inhale of breath felt like a reminder of how this is the sort of day to be spent with a cup of hot cocoa in hand, preferably near a fireplace.
Yet here he was, walking the streets of The Stacks with a decorated cream-colored envelope in hand, containing an invitation that he himself picked and penned in neat handwriting because Sophronios could not be bothered to do either. Frankly, it took a bit of convincing and a moment of silent staring for the galdor to give his approval, but approval had been had and that is what matters. The older man could use company that is not Yazad’s, and the passive himself had suggested a change of pace to Niccolette in their previous unplanned meeting. It seemed like a good enough idea to plan a dinner to which the galdor woman would be invited.
Early noon had come and passed, mostly spent serving a late breakfast and managing the daily chores of their dwelling. Not much aside from the regular cleaning and tidying, which the servant could have easily done later in the day if he did not know himself enough to be certain that he would feel terrible for the procrastination.
Palazzo di Rhodon, where Niccoletter stayed, was memorable enough. A very Bastian name and a very Bastian design to go with it. Just like before, there was an abundance of people around his age both in the wide road and in the cafes serving concoctions that he would not dare try. A gust of wind passed by, causing Yazad to hug his coat tighter against his body. No one else seemed as bothered as he was about the cool breeze.
Eagerness bubbled up within him when the passive passed through the hotel’s gates to a blessed warmer place. This was not his first time coming to Palazzo di Rhodon, but it is his first time inside it. For a moment, Yazad paused to evaluate the interior, a hand pressing the envelope against his chest while the other smoothed away some non-existent creases on his dark teal coat. The decor was a step above decent, which is more than he was coming to hope for in normal establishments within The Stacks. Only a handful of people were present, and the only reason Yazad took the liberty of eyeing them was to see if Niccolette could be found among them. She was not there. The reception, naturally, was his next step.
It had been a relatively quick affair to ask the sharply dressed young man standing behind the desk for Madam Niccolette Ibutatu’s room. There was a brief civil exchange preceding that, starting with the obligatory comments about the weather and ending with polite inquiries about who he was and what business he needed the madam for. Answers were given, the envelope and a permit were shown, and up on his way, Yazad went.
Just like the days of his life, the doors for hotel rooms looked all the same, as did the carpeted corridors. He was bound to find the door with the room number that he was given eventually, and thankfully it turned out to take less time for him to find it than he expected. The passive was smiling already, his round cheeks ruddy with a blush that looked to be there permanently. His pale green eyes double-checked the elegant bronze digits. Yes, this is the correct room. Niccolette had no way of knowing that he was coming to visit her today. She might not even be present inside the room, but he had made the trip and he can always hope that she is there. He was not going to take much of her time, Yazad told himself. Just deliver the invitation, check on her well-being, then leave.
Slender fingers closed knocked on the door with only enough force to generate an audible sound. The three gentle knocks were followed by the soft clearing of Yazad’s throat, and then a voice that was both courteous and bright. "Madam Niccolette? Please pardon my unannounced presence. It is Yazad." After the passive’s statement, he stood silently in polite anticipation.