To Flow From

Muriel had spent the morning helping a young woman get in touch with her anger. It had been a painful process but it would be better for her in the long run. Now Muriel was upstairs at Emanare, wings flared, hair disheveled and with slight flush on her pale cheeks.

"Water, please," she said as she approached the bar.

Sundays weren't any different at the Emanare than any other day. It was crowded with a multitude of beings, corners and nooks isolated for peace. Any beverage was served at the bar on each level by one of the Morgan women.

It was simple, it was relaxing, it was neutral. That was the charm.