[ To be honest, in a lounge such as this, no one is going to notice even an impressive armful of giant cushions and assorted paraphernalia going missing for a while. Perhaps they'd been dragged off to a more private alcove. Which technically they had, though not of the lounge itself. Richie may be robbed of the atmosphere and luxurious excess within the Crystal itself, but the modest pile makes the floor the softest Sandra has experienced in centuries, the low din still eerily surrounding their solitude the warmest it's been in perhaps months. ]

[ She sits, curled small on their mound of pillows and head tilted toward the heady scent emanating from her smokestack of a companion until he shifts beside her, and her hand finds the proffered fyrra. Her senses glutted with the acrid sting of pyre ash, the pull she takes tastes positively honeyed and powerfully spiced, and the smoke escapes between her teeth on the edge of a laugh. ]

Ages, indeed. [ We get it Sandra, mortal life is fleeting. But in fewer words: same. ] Such leisures were rather commonplace, on the outskirts of the Empire, though really never quite so extravagant... I must admit, it surprises me you have a term for it at all, considering your track record for befuddlement here.