project-hank
This morning's mist persists under the trees of the estate, the sun hangs pale in a gray sky. A spoon clinks against the china, the tea is steaming in the fresh air, a breakfast is waiting on a small table beside the two chairs out on the terrace. The morning is still, calm.
A lone man hurries over the grass, the dew on the blades dampening his shoes and cane.
"Your Majesty." He stops with a respectful distance to the terrace, lifting the bowler from his head. "There is a ... commotion. In the city. What shall I do, you Majesty?"
She sips at her tea and sets it down, delicately, on the table beside her. She watches past the man, watches the willow trees, and the mist, and the grey towers of the city behind.
"Send the Hounds."