( &&. @fckolyvar )
There were three things souring Dimitri Valentina’s mood for the evening. The first being that he was still betrothed, and to an absolute she-witch at that, despite his best efforts to convince his elder brother that political marriages were a thing of the Ottoman Empire and, therefore, decidedly in the past. Dimitri’s second grievance dealt with the supposed open bar situated at the Garden Hotel, and the lack of knowledge the tender seemed to have on slavic drinks. He’d nearly tossed his glass across the room when the bartender had given him a blank, disinterested look after Dimitri had ordered a Tolstoy Tang. A who? the man had asked, and the urge to rip every single gaudy drape from the room and smother the imbecile with it grew bright and stinging.
The third grievance Dimitri had for the evening came in the form of the pouty-lipped, smug-faced bastard he’d spotted across the room upon entering the establishment. Olyvar Peters or, as Dimitri privately preferred to call him, that puffer fish-faced motherfucker. Excusing himself momentarily from Arielle’s presence, Dimitri made his way across the room to where Olyvar was standing, his sub-par single malt whiskey dangling from his fingertips in a crystal glass.
“Well, well, well,” he began smoothly, lifting the crystal glass to his lips and taking a sip. “Look what the cat dragged in. A rat.”