[ The addition of the music isn't half bad; a quick glance Lien's way, and Lancer picks up on the tune easily enough, whistling a few notes here and there as light feet bring him around the cafe, war-calloused hands lean against wood surfaces. For all that he is— a Servant, as undignified as the term may sound— he doesn't mind the transition from irregular to mundane. He's intimately familiar with it, after all.
This place is nice, he concludes. Not a very grandiose term, but he likes it well enough: it's quaint, quiet. The people are friendly, the coffee is good.
He thinks about how he can get used to this, but waves that thought away. Everything has its own time.
When the light through the window starts to redden, when streetlights turn on and curtains start getting drawn, is when Cu finally pulls his apron off and drapes it across his arm. ]
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This place is nice, he concludes. Not a very grandiose term, but he likes it well enough: it's quaint, quiet. The people are friendly, the coffee is good.
He thinks about how he can get used to this, but waves that thought away. Everything has its own time.
When the light through the window starts to redden, when streetlights turn on and curtains start getting drawn, is when Cu finally pulls his apron off and drapes it across his arm. ]
Not bad for a day's work.