Dressed smartly, the Galdor walked with a spring in his step. Clean shaven, the lingering scent of ground coffee followed him – he was required to make an impression, and first impressions were the most important. White shirt, crested with a burgundy cravat, a waist coat with various swirls of red dancing across the front panels. Dark trousers, bracers, and polished black brogues. Brought to a shine, they caught the little light and softly glowed in response. Over it all a finely woven coat, hanging open with its brass buttons. Red hair slicked back, he adjusted the hold the basket beneath his arm.
Today’s mission took him to the Abassador of Gior – a position he previously associated with his father. Times changed however and since the Senior Vinter stepped down from his position a younger one took his place. An Athrym Bruthgrave was the new one, female, half Giorian. Though in the eyes of Ignatius that hardly an issue. As long as they held their country, their precious homeland to heart the origin did not matter. The journalist let the small smile curl onto his lips, a slow neutral expression he frequently fell into. It has a tendency to put people at ease, more so with the field that gently waved and drifted over, occasionally fluttering when something caught his attention. He imagined it as a soft yellow, nearing into greens, when the attention was snatched.
As he closed in on the location, he adjusted himself. A slower pace as he smoothed out the crinkles of his shirt. A small adjusting of the cuffs, a brief peer back into the basket – it was a bottle of wine, a collection of cheeses and other light and storable edibles. All local produce, a point of discussion and something the ambassador would have to familiarise herself with. Not that the Journalist was going to enforce it, it was more an exercise of getting the motions going.
Flicking the last of his hair to one side, he reached the front door, straightened. He knocked thrice, his throat clearing as his field shifted to professionalism. Ears twitching and waiting for some element of response, he spoke softly through the door in Giorian, “Aghala eate deuee ethseeda heye. I am Ignatius Vinter, seedayar of the previous ambassador heye. I am here to grant you a late welcome to Anaxas.”
He remained where he was for the moment, making no further moves as he exercised the matter of patience. What was she to be like? What was her goals? Agenda? The questions flowed back and forth, a gentle buzzing of curiosity betraying him in his field.
“I may come back later if now is a beaydy time?”