@darknessbloomed
The trip to the agora had been a painful one. He was not one for public places, not one for crowds, and not one for crowds surrounded by displays of freshly harvested bounties of the Earth and the Seas. And yet he had wandered with a singular purpose, and he had come out feeling short of victory. When he returned to the Pandokos Xenostatis, he trod forward without care for the glances or greetings of others, his expression impartial and disinterested, softened (slightly) only when he found the object of his search.
Silently, without mind to the servants that surrounded them, he handed over the flowers. Almost as an afterthought, he added an explanation: “You said the garden was lacking.” He almost looked irritated as his gaze wandered over the diverse, disparate bouquet — dozens of differently colored and shaped flowers, the freshest and sweetest-smelling of their kin (according to their sellers, though of course they would all say this), that he did his best to remain untouched with death — irritated because he did not feel that he had found enough. His priority had not been a harmonious display, but getting as many as he could; he could not tell the difference, for the death of him, for all the flowers reeked of life which he did not know. (All he knew was that the goddess seemed to adore each and every one she came across, and that she had been complaining about the lack of some in the rooftop gardens.) “If these do not suffice, then allow me to return to the agora in the morrow.”
