[There is some background noise of clinking tin as Cyril busies himself with a spot of tea. It's not much, not the fine china and delicate flavors he's most used to. Most perturbing, it wasn't simply brought by a servant. Instead, he himself was forced to haul water, boil it, pour it, and suffer the lack of sugar and milk to go in it. And it's wearing, the little details, such that, while he's turned on the video option already, he doesn't hurry it along. Instead, he stirs the liquid idly.

The man is impeccably dressed, wearing a dark waistcoat over a light blue, satin vest. His long, dark hair gathered into a low tail at the nape of his neck save two locks that frame his face, and when taken with his pole-straight posture (even while seated), it's passingly obvious that the surroundings he's now placed in are not those to which he's accustomed, nor inclined. The rest of the room doesn't match up by any means, but he holds himself to an elegance that denies the dilapidation around him. Nevertheless, if he's disgusted with his surroundings, or if they affect him in the slightest, he offers no sign. Rather, a delicate smile toys with the corners of his mouth.]

I don't suppose this is the usual order of things, mm? Why, it seems almost as if fire rained down upon the city.

[A momentary, pensive hum, and Cyril pauses to sip his tea. There follows a momentary flick of his fingers as his expression sobers.]

Please, forgive my curiosity. I merely wonder at just what sort of [politely, he clears his throat.] predicament I've been foisted into in my recent relocation. And how precisely might I request an audience with those responsible for that relocation?

I shouldn't like to disappoint. Anon enabled, IP logging off, comments screened.