Alice held the mug in front of her.
Rather, held was a crude word. It was more so 'cradling' the mug as though it was something fragile and could break at any moment.
Her fingers traced the handle, then the lip of the mug. She studied it deeply for it is the chalice that holds her drink.
She didn't indulge herself in the drink. It is not yet time.
She simply observed.
The mead itself was of a deep amber gold in colour. Reflections of the mid day sun from the tavern window flickered off its waves, scattering the light against the edge of the mug and into Alice's eyes.
She tilted the mug a few times, watching as the mead swirled, rising against the wall of the mug before sliding back down.
Alice narrowed her eyes with a smile on her face.
She brought the mug up to her nose.
The scent of the mead rose steadily.
Sweet.
But it wasn't a simple sweetness no. There were layers to this scent. First it was the scent of honey that then blended into something floral, soft.
