You diligently poor the black tea into the cup, in which two scoops of sugar had already been placed. Hot water pooring as the damps spreads the smell through the room.

Dostoevski leans his head on his two hands, fingers interlaced to create a sort of pedestal for his chin. Sharp purple eyes watched you through thin lashes "Why thank you" the man said politely, a gentle smile on his lips. His composure and grace always managed to make you feel a certain way...