“When,” Jevan’s own consciousness shimmered into existence in the room Illyad had constructed within the realm between conscious and subconscious, his arms crossed over his chest and a sly expression on his tan face, “have I ever kept you waiting, Illyad?”
	Jevan glanced to the pot of tea and spare cup that sat on the table before his brother. His nose rose up at it. “I still don’t understand your affinity for that stuff,” he said languidly. “It has no [i]kick.[/i]” He stepped leisurely toward the table as a tray with a bar bottle filled with his favorite brand of brandy and a single glass fizzled into existence--or at least as close to existence as you got in this in-between place.
	He stopped at the table, paying the rest of the surroundings little regard as he poured himself a glass of his drink of choice. With brandy in hand, he pulled out the secondary chair. He sat and placed his feet on the table, crossing them at the ankles. He took a long, slow drink of the contents in his glass.
	“Now [i]that’s[/i] a drink.” He looked to Illyad with an exaggerated sense of interest. “It’s been a while. You look thinner than I remember.” He took another swig of his brandy, almost draining the cup. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, little brother?” he finished derisively.