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Urquhart's rooms smells of spices and smoke when he opens the door. There is a fire in the brazier, and a tray of small spicy pastries by the divan, exuding a scent of cardamom and cinnamon and aniseed and cloves.
It's already dark outside, and Franz the dog contentedly goes to lie in his corner and dream of hunting demon bunnies, his feet moving as he sleeps, sometimes.
Urquhart puts down the jug of mulled cider and the mugs he brought, nudges the door shut, and turns to look into Moist's eyes with all sorts of lewd promises.
It's already dark outside, and Franz the dog contentedly goes to lie in his corner and dream of hunting demon bunnies, his feet moving as he sleeps, sometimes.
Urquhart puts down the jug of mulled cider and the mugs he brought, nudges the door shut, and turns to look into Moist's eyes with all sorts of lewd promises.
