Beau’s daily routine consisted of the same thing, wake up at dawn, make coffee, grab a book, grab the newspaper, head to the balcony where there was a table and chairs waiting for him. His coffee would always set in the same spot and there was an ancient brown stain of the ring rested there. He would take the same seat, one that overlooked the district, and he would watch the district wake, every single day.
Beau chose to live in Rurikton because of the rich history it had in attachment to his Ascalonian heritage, and the book he always had on hand was, without fail, every single day, a story of olden times in Ascalon, whether it was fictional or historical, romantic or heroic, if it took place more than two and a half centuries ago, he was reading all about it.
Every day, before he cracked his book open, though, he loved to watch his historical district wake, because every single morning, at the bread cart down below, the smell of a wood fire and the first breathy peaks of artisan bread would rise to his balcony. The old man below who would work that stove had been doing so for as long as Beau had made use of the manor. It was to the point where he could not enjoy his cup of coffee and his book without knowing that the food of the old world was being magnificently crafted down below.
This was history at its best, and before modern convenience began to sully the city, it humbled Beau to know that every single day, that man used ancient technique to create something that has been in existance longer than the Larkspurs have even mattered.
History was the only thing that could excite him as much as the Baroness.