Tea Talk | Jemin & Tahla

Osulas’s breezier neighborhoods were an uncommon setting for the snake of a mule. Jemin navigated the city on the accord of his grandmother’s browbeating insistence, exasperated but not entirely unwilling. He neglected his duties as a family member as often as he did any obligation.

Evidently, he was the only individual who saw no issue with the fact that he hadn’t visited her in two years.

He dragged his hooves up coiling sandstone paths, crowding close to avoid collision. The further up the canyon wall one went, the more elaborate (and more exclusive to winged folk) the architure became. One house’s roof was another’s walkway, winding over natural arches and narrow steps.

His grandmother’s hole in the wall was somewhere between the fifth and twentieth level.

The incense of tea wafted through a crude-cut window. A clay vase, sprouting sunflowers, sat atop the front step. Oddly inconvenient. Sighing tiredly, carelessly, he nudged the vase aside - too carelessly, and watched as it bounced off the step and right over the edge, plunging to the ground level. He winced inwardly at the resulting shatter and furious bellow from several dwellings below.

“Jam, is that you? Bring in my sunflowers while you’re out there.”

His grandmother’s muffled voice spurred him into action. Now was as good a time as any to make himself scarce. “Ah, yeah - yeah, sure thing,” he called, casting an inconspicuous glance over his shoulder before swiping a flower off the neighboring garden-box and pushing past the silk drapes of Nada’s doorway.

Jemin was greeted by the familiar fragrance of herbs and the heady warmth of close, cluttered quarters. Nada was atypically indulgent for a Seroran; not to the point of being selfish, certainly not, but enough to have a taste for life’s finer things. He stumbled over a tapestry, hissed a slew of curses, and skidded into the ‘dining’ area.

The elderly donkey was laying neatly atop an intricate cushion, stirring a mug of tea. A smile cracked her frail features at the sight of her grandson. As he placed the flower in a glass, she snagged his ear and (ignoring his protest) commenced her inspection whilst musing aloud. “Still skinny.” She tilted his head. “Still scruffy.”

“And you’ve still got the grip of a dingo,” Jemin observed wryly. He snatched back his ear, straightened up, and averted his attention to the other presence in the room; a dark, hulking figure, not quite suited to a ceiling built for a tiny pegasus.

“Tahla.” His greeting lacked the respect commonly attributed to the senior stallion. “I see you’re still kicking, too.”