(no subject)

[lawofthejungle]

[Sprawled in the sun.  Possibly sleeping.]

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[routemistress]

[Iris would rather stay in the shade, and she eyes him for a long moment before deciding that refusing to walk the twelve or so feet between them isn't worth the effort. She fills the second glass, and rises to her feet with a theatrical sigh.]

What'd your last servant die of? No, don't answer that, lovey, I'm fairly sure I don't need to know. 'Ere you go.