Dantel sat in the gardens of the Orikal estate, surrounded by the sweet aroma of black lilies and of humid air. His pen moved across the thin piece of parchment in his hands, as he wrote down a collective set of words that formulated what one could classify as a poem. Hestia had been very insistent of teaching her children such eloquent talents - Lysandi was far better, while Volans brushed it off, and Isla lacked interest. Dantel, however, enjoyed it. Though he would never admit it. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. However, he quickly became alert when he heard footsteps close at hand, and eased his hand over the paper. “It is rude to sneak up on people.”