One's Comfort

Meanwhile, in Upper Mursa's tallest tower, under the sapphire-blue sheen of its glimmering spire. 

The Neoteric Syndicate's Chief Syndic sat on a regular, wood-carved chair freed from the local, deeply-ingrained scars of tacky opulence. His bulky frame gave the false impression of a relaxed pose, though the twitching and ceaseless shifting betrayed his yearning for his usual lectus. 

However, he dared not face the individual in front of him while reclining on such a seat. 

She sat cross-legged on a similar chair, a tinge of amusement stretching the corners of her violet-colored lips. She intently read an unfurled scroll, occasionally wrinkling her mesmerizing, elegant features for a chuckle. 

Her black strands, styled in asymmetric braids streaked with faintly golden hues, fluttered as she repeatedly glanced from the papyri to the Chief Syndic.