50th of Ash, Year 4622
Morning had been kind to him. He awoke with a stride he found almost uncanny, and entirely unfamiliar of late, driven by what he found to be the pure excitement that accompanied this foray he and Ford had been planning. For the rest of the forty-eighth, he focused on his own work, sequestering himself to his study in a state of prolonged isolation; on the forty-ninth, he allowed the other man to gather his bearings, settling into his role as the head of the Covenant's Norunn sociological research. On the fifty-first he'd probably lay down the fundamentals of what the faction actually expected of the Griscian man, but first, they had a day off to celebrate with, and it had been all Taelian had thought about the two nights before it.
He sat at the desk within his room, thumb scrolling over the sketch left in his journal by the other man, from that wonderful morning where they'd bonded over a nice brew. He had to remember to take that journal, because there was a lot he wanted to draw. On the corner of the page, not far from where Ford had added his own drawing, Taelian had etched out an image of two male hands lifting their mugs of coffee; a reminder of the sweetness of that moment. He loomed sentimentally for a while, before closing the journal and getting dressed. What he ended up wearing was minimalistic enough to be comfortable, but classy enough to taste wine with: one of those incredibly new fashions from the Commonwealth, known as a polo shirt. It was a gentleman's attire, and he'd wanted one for quite some time. The shirt ended up costing him a considerable amount, but to the man and his cutting-edge aspirations, it was worth it.
After getting dressed with that white shirt and a pair of beige slacks, as well as some derby shoes, the man met with Ford and ushered him along until they were at the marina, boarding a ferry that would take them north near Malevin within a few hours. They left early that morning, and arrived at the harbor of Port Vlachen shortly after noon. Taelian explained to the other that the vineyard was a short trek beyond a knoll, leading into a vast valley flanked on one side by trees, and another by the river Neid. The two launched their expedition towards Wickrund, the vineyard, and within another hour or two they loomed over the edge of that knoll, a narrow road guiding them down towards what appeared to be a villa, flanked by cypress and countless yards of wine bushes. Taelian already purchased a reservation, there, to both taste the vintner's work and stay a night in one of the nearby cabins, sprawled out near the edges of the forest that laid near the field.
With the sun still high, the two men stared over it all: all of the splendor below, the sight filling the larger man with a warming gleam.
"Here it is, Ford," he said, his voice as bright and relentlessly enthused as it had ever been. Turning to face the other man, Taelian offered him a forceful nod: they needed to get down there and taste what was on offer. Taelian began his slow descent down the small hill. "Were you as excited for this as I was?" he asked, grinning widely as he looked upon the mass of bushes and vines. "I took your chamomile and herb brew, and I... I dreamt, and I slept well. And you know what I dreamt about?" he asked, shaking his head.
"Those drinks I had in Daravin," Taelian said, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And I remembered one of them, finally, after years... and it's here; I confirmed that in the little book they sent me. I won't spoil it, though: I'll draw it in my book once we drink it together."
By the time they met the foot of the hill, the man appeared almost dazed -- his chest expanded as he took in and let out large, deep breaths. "Thank you for coming. I mean it."
