This was a cultural shock if Ezrael ever experienced one. He had been to Kusari a few times to enjoy the nightlife of Neo Tokyo. And then the traditional daylife of Kusari, with their paper walls, kimonos and temples. Until today, he would have called that time in Kusari as the most extraordinaire one he had been through. But here came Amiral de Chanteloup, presenting him the LA ROTONDE, with capital letters. While the wooden theme was not a rare sight on space ships and stations, as he remembered the few times he had been invited to a Bretonian warship, but it was this place where he got confronted with the most gallic gallicisms of Gallia. The language, the food and the servicemens' mannerisms.
Listening to the Amiral and the maître d'hôtel, he had a hard time keeping up with their exchange. There were few gallic words and phrases he knew, but listening to them was way different from reading them. He however understood what was happening the moment the poor man turned towards him, as he was requested to explain the menu to Vertiga in a not-so-classy language. With not-so-classy terms. "No, please. This sounds as excellent as it could get."
In Liberty and Rheinland, it was common to be as polite as the host was. In Bretonia, it was a duel or a tournament about who could be more polite. Something that the bretonian battlefield etiquette was often reflecting when it was possible. Of course, Admiral Dagon was not the best example of bretonian charme. In Kusari, however, the guest was supposed to get serviced in any possible way from the host. The host was always supposed to be more polite than the guest. Now he was here on Cordes, a gallic space station, decorated with the famous and feared Amiral Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup. A woman decorated and scarred by her successes and failures alike. And while Ezrael couldn't help but notice the facial instability around the Amiral's mouth region, clearly indicating her amusement, the Curacaoan was facing the most gallic way of servicing and hosting he could have imagined. If he was to suddenly grab and lift the maître, chances were the man would get stuck to the ceiling with his nose.
While the scene in his mind, a gallic ceiling decorated with multiple haughty gallic men and women, he tried to focus more on what was happening around him. Sitting in his chair and facing the Amiral in what felt almost uncomfortably far away, he smirked at her. "I wish I had a connection to the BIS or the LSF, just to get an idea what deeds resulted in your title, Amiral. Your presence commands so much respect, I almost feel pity for your inferiors here on Cordes. The tension." He made a fitting gesture for the last word. "I guess I can call myself lucky for receiving this much of your attention. Under other circumstances, people would probably envy me for being your guest." Taking in the view of her, framed by her surroundings, he couldn't help but smile a bit wider. "I hope I do a good job so far as your guest."
The kir. Ezrael took the fittingly-shaped glass and raised it slightly. Not his first time. An apéritif. Not wanting to cause a fauxpas, he waited for her to make the first move.
