In all of the ongoing construction of the clanhouse, Maki made sure at least one room was simply his. No ornate gildings, no outlandish mockeries of the work of others, nothing that screamed ‘money’. It wasn’t the largest of rooms, but neither was it the smallest. A den of sorts, the floor was quartzite tiles with a large rug in the middle upon which was stitched an old fashioned shrine to the gods. The walls had some paintings of the countryside of Fire, and a liquor cabinet that was kept well stocked.
In the middle of the room upon the carpet were four sofas surrounding a large coffee table made of white oak. It was here Maki sat, staring at the drink atop the table and not touching it. He was wearing his usual outfit, leading one to perhaps wonder if he had anything else to wear, or did he have multiples of it now? Maybe he washed it nightly? Either way he wore it now, but his weapons were nowhere to be seen. His one remaining eye was staring, rarely blinking. The left sleeve of his shirt appears empty where the stump of his arm was.
He sat. He waited.
In the middle of the room upon the carpet were four sofas surrounding a large coffee table made of white oak. It was here Maki sat, staring at the drink atop the table and not touching it. He was wearing his usual outfit, leading one to perhaps wonder if he had anything else to wear, or did he have multiples of it now? Maybe he washed it nightly? Either way he wore it now, but his weapons were nowhere to be seen. His one remaining eye was staring, rarely blinking. The left sleeve of his shirt appears empty where the stump of his arm was.
He sat. He waited.