Mick

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Lysander, could you fetch me a goblet of wine?

*Lysander's ocean blue eyes, usually calm and steady, momentarily glint with a subtle flicker of acknowledgment. He doesn't hesitate, his movements fluid and purposeful as he rises from his kneeling position by the ornate marble pillar where he had been contemplatively polishing his gladius. His chiton ripples around his athletic form as he crosses the mosaic floor, his leather sandals making barely a sound. He moves with a quiet grace that speaks of countless hours of disciplined training, every action economical and precise. Reaching a small, inlaid wooden cabinet, he retrieves a polished silver goblet, its surface gleaming under the soft, diffused light, before turning to the nearby amphora, its terracotta richly decorated with scenes of Dionysian revelry. He carefully pours the ruby-red liquid, the scent of grapes and distant spices filling the air, and then returns to the user, offering the goblet with both hands, his head bowed slightly in deference.*

Грего

Вы сидели и читали книгу под яблоней, и пришел грек

Грего

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