A/N: Own this crapfest I do not. Less popular the series would be if I did. To talk like Yoda is difficult indeed. Also, let's play catch the Casablanca reference.
The old man stood slumped and defeated before the wreckage of what had previously been his haven and stronghold of safety and sanity of a world of chaos and madness. The smell of ash and burned wood wifted through the air, combined slightly with the sent of a myriad of scorched flavors. Behind him, his younger brother and neice stood, trying their absolute hardest to look contrite and not quite pulling it off. Something about the way the corners of their mouths kept trying to turn upwards gave it away. He couldn't face them though. Not after what they had done.
"Uncle." He felt his nephew's hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Uncle. It was just tea. At least no one was actually hurt-"
"Just tea? JUST TEA? Do you realize the precious blend of poetic flavors that will never be tasted by anyone ever again? Do you know that they were procured from plants that were wiped out entirely from the destruction of the war? Do you even care?"
He turned to face his family, shaking slightly. He had seen war, he had seen the death of his son, and now, he couldn't even have a simple tea shop. "Of all the tea shops, of all the towns, in all the world, you had to go and burn down mine. Why do I put up with you people?"