[ After observing the debacle of a guy doing "homework" with multiple other people, trying to grow little sprouts into youthful plants that will survive being thrust into the ground, it becomes obvious that someone has grown a little impatient with the whole thing. Within the the Greenwood Yards, there is a low whistle that echoes across the street — the figure of a pale man in a dark shendyt, his hair unbound, is the one who has fingers between his lips. Whistling.

As if Sho were an animal to grab the attention of. He's seated at one of the little tea tables, the wrought iron table laden with mulled wines and finger goods. ] Did you have fun with their pitiable attempts at performing labor they are not meant for?

[ The man radiates heat, a scalding sort of dry atmosphere around him that sees the ends of his hair curling brightly and golden jewelry catching the light around him. The city is bathed in cool moonlight, but he stands out — sunny, in the way that a wildfire might be, or the defiance of two middle fingers thrust to the authorities might be. Bare chested, he twirls a finger through hair, jostling one of the long golden earrings he wears. ]

Highstorm is the seat of Zenith. Zenith is the antithesis of creation and growth, yet they pretend they still can eat their cake and have it too. If you want your cute little sproutlings to grow...

[ Baring bright, sharp teeth in a smile, the brash-voiced man wiggles his fingers at Sho. ]

Well, it is why they need Meridian to tend their gardens and grow their food.