Tea steeps—a black blend fragrant with orange peel and lavender, given depth by blue cornflower, and accented with a touch of vanilla for a subtle note of sweet—and the Director waits, minding the clinic's entrance (for his guest to be, for anyone injured or in need, and for... the sister who he still hopes to see, a beloved someone vanished during the chaos of the riots) as he catalogues on-hand supplies and sets place for two atop a table which has likely been used many a time in lieu of a proper examination chair, but now has been repurposed for the sake of an 'interview'.
A handful of days ago, Sion had issued a warrant for aid with supply transit from Leith to Westerley, the details of which to be disclosed only in person, in this charity clinic which had uncannily survived both the riots and the sudden surge of gang-violence. Almost, it is as though a protective ward has shrouded the establishment, and being the sentimental man the Director is, he will attribute as much to his sister's grace. Even if she should have gone (and he could not search for her), her will to help others remains in this place.
Perhaps it is only fitting, then, that it serve as a rendezvous point for Sion's endeavor to grant even more safe-haven and aid.
It is after hearing the soft chime of entryway bells and the slow creak of the front door that the Director lifts his head, greeting with a fond hello—]
Keith. My thanks, for meeting me here. I realize the request was rather unusual.
[ —which is rather unlike the demeanor of most Company men.
Long white hair worn in a braid, warm eyes, and a gentle expression, this is Sion Astal, Administrative Director of Westerley. ]
CLOSED | Keith, W7D5
Tea steeps—a black blend fragrant with orange peel and lavender, given depth by blue cornflower, and accented with a touch of vanilla for a subtle note of sweet—and the Director waits, minding the clinic's entrance (for his guest to be, for anyone injured or in need, and for... the sister who he still hopes to see, a beloved someone vanished during the chaos of the riots) as he catalogues on-hand supplies and sets place for two atop a table which has likely been used many a time in lieu of a proper examination chair, but now has been repurposed for the sake of an 'interview'.
A handful of days ago, Sion had issued a warrant for aid with supply transit from Leith to Westerley, the details of which to be disclosed only in person, in this charity clinic which had uncannily survived both the riots and the sudden surge of gang-violence. Almost, it is as though a protective ward has shrouded the establishment, and being the sentimental man the Director is, he will attribute as much to his sister's grace. Even if she should have gone (and he could not search for her), her will to help others remains in this place.
Perhaps it is only fitting, then, that it serve as a rendezvous point for Sion's endeavor to grant even more safe-haven and aid.
It is after hearing the soft chime of entryway bells and the slow creak of the front door that the Director lifts his head, greeting with a fond hello—]
Keith. My thanks, for meeting me here. I realize the request was rather unusual.
[ —which is rather unlike the demeanor of most Company men.
Long white hair worn in a braid, warm eyes, and a gentle expression, this is Sion Astal, Administrative Director of Westerley. ]