[ without preamble: ]
I thought I knew all the rebels in Kirkwall. Should I know you? Your voice sounds familiar, but your name doesn't.
I thought I knew all the rebels in Kirkwall. Should I know you? Your voice sounds familiar, but your name doesn't.
[ of course he's heard she's here. he's been very careful to hear who everyone in charge is. it's why he thinks, for several minutes, about just not replying —
what do you even say? 'you ripped a man in half in front of me'? 'i saved your life multiple times'? 'there was a windmill on fire'? probably that wouldn’t narrow it down much. ]
Kostos is a contact. I believe you and I met near Farwater.
[ that's a town as of now ]
what do you even say? 'you ripped a man in half in front of me'? 'i saved your life multiple times'? 'there was a windmill on fire'? probably that wouldn’t narrow it down much. ]
Kostos is a contact. I believe you and I met near Farwater.
[ that's a town as of now ]
way to make me spend five full minutes trying to figure out if i'd used the wrong roll/role
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
galvanising
- 2018-04-04 02:16 (UTC) - ExpandAre we counting flights of imaginative fancy?
[ that's a solid 'none' ]
[ that's a solid 'none' ]
Edited 2018-04-19 16:12 (UTC)
[ There’s no preamble or warning—save his assurance over the crystals—but shortly after Isaac’s request, a large jar full of dead spiders shows up on his doorstep.
It would be really fucking creepy, if he hadn’t actually asked for them. ]
It would be really fucking creepy, if he hadn’t actually asked for them. ]
[ It is not every day that one has their portrait... drawn? Painted. Years upon years since her last. ( Burned, no doubt, by the British. Like everything else. Meticulously done so, she knew, to remove every trace of her. ) If an image remains of her, she certainly doesn't know about it, to say the least.
Then again, this was hardly like any of the times she had sat for such a thing. A great deal informal. But she made sure to look her best. More than her best - little enough occasion here, she had already realised, for the work that was required of her. So this seems a good one, to don gold and bright colours. Blue, always favourite, mingled with white below it. The heavy fabric that she pulled over her hair as ever, a little down below her face so he could at least recognise her. True to her word, a great deal more hair than him. Her women would chide her, of course, but she was long past caring so much other than to make a point. It fell all the way down to her hip, think and long and dark. A pin of flowers she'd made sure of, just this one, behind her ear.
( She might not be vain, exactly, not prone to the hours say, Malhari, had. But she took pride in caring for herself. )
And the plate of sweets, just as she promised, held between her hands. Covered with a cloth. Ready for the company - looking for him in the gardens. Ignoring the inevitable looks at a Rifter who didn't seem remotely interested in hiding otherwise. ]
Isaac? Was it?
[ Is the easing greeting, whenever she does spot him. ]
Then again, this was hardly like any of the times she had sat for such a thing. A great deal informal. But she made sure to look her best. More than her best - little enough occasion here, she had already realised, for the work that was required of her. So this seems a good one, to don gold and bright colours. Blue, always favourite, mingled with white below it. The heavy fabric that she pulled over her hair as ever, a little down below her face so he could at least recognise her. True to her word, a great deal more hair than him. Her women would chide her, of course, but she was long past caring so much other than to make a point. It fell all the way down to her hip, think and long and dark. A pin of flowers she'd made sure of, just this one, behind her ear.
( She might not be vain, exactly, not prone to the hours say, Malhari, had. But she took pride in caring for herself. )
And the plate of sweets, just as she promised, held between her hands. Covered with a cloth. Ready for the company - looking for him in the gardens. Ignoring the inevitable looks at a Rifter who didn't seem remotely interested in hiding otherwise. ]
Isaac? Was it?
[ Is the easing greeting, whenever she does spot him. ]
[ There are always eyes for green hands, for foreign name, and dress, and speech.
So — himself a stranger to the Marches (to four years outside a tower), he's taken the opposite tack: Dark colours, sturdy cloth. Practical. Distinctly not a robe. You could run in it, and make it more than thirty yards before tripping onto the point of a sword.
His best, at least, since Montsimmard. But he's shaved, and the shirt's clean of any healer's stains, and there's a teapot and blanket tucked into a corner of the garden with absolute incongruity to the distant clash of swords, the salt-and-seagull-shit smell of the air. ]
Lakshmibai, [ He stands to greet her, dips head and shoulders and moves to take the plate, clear her path. ] You look positively a sunrise.
[ Closer to noon now, and the bustle of the place stilled a short time, shovels and rakes at rest. The ground here, reinvigorated, blooms in something a touch beyond the summer itself; verdant and swollen with life. Little like the straggling rooftop rows tucked here and there of the city beyond. ]
So — himself a stranger to the Marches (to four years outside a tower), he's taken the opposite tack: Dark colours, sturdy cloth. Practical. Distinctly not a robe. You could run in it, and make it more than thirty yards before tripping onto the point of a sword.
His best, at least, since Montsimmard. But he's shaved, and the shirt's clean of any healer's stains, and there's a teapot and blanket tucked into a corner of the garden with absolute incongruity to the distant clash of swords, the salt-and-seagull-shit smell of the air. ]
Lakshmibai, [ He stands to greet her, dips head and shoulders and moves to take the plate, clear her path. ] You look positively a sunrise.
[ Closer to noon now, and the bustle of the place stilled a short time, shovels and rakes at rest. The ground here, reinvigorated, blooms in something a touch beyond the summer itself; verdant and swollen with life. Little like the straggling rooftop rows tucked here and there of the city beyond. ]
[A brief message in a spidery but well-practiced hand has found its way into the hands of everyone in the newly-rechristened Hostile Powers project. None of this newfangled magical book business.]
In light of recent events abroad, their ongoing implications, and the necessary narrowing of our focus as a project, your input is requested at a project-wide conference that will be held via crystal at eight o'clock Tuesday evening.
Please let me know if you are unable to listen in. Minutes will be made available to those who cannot.
--Enchanter Vandelin, Assistant Project Leader
In light of recent events abroad, their ongoing implications, and the necessary narrowing of our focus as a project, your input is requested at a project-wide conference that will be held via crystal at eight o'clock Tuesday evening.
Please let me know if you are unable to listen in. Minutes will be made available to those who cannot.
--Enchanter Vandelin, Assistant Project Leader
I think...I want to learn different kinds of magic. The kind that helps people, rather than hurts. Not--Not healing.
[ There's enough of that, he's never had much luck with it. As long as he isn't trying to use a spirit, there shouldn't be too much of a conflict with his...other abilities. But it still presents a risk, and Gareth hasn't survived this long without trying to avoid undue risks. ]
Just...helping other people. Making them stronger, or less likely to get injured, things like that.
[ There's enough of that, he's never had much luck with it. As long as he isn't trying to use a spirit, there shouldn't be too much of a conflict with his...other abilities. But it still presents a risk, and Gareth hasn't survived this long without trying to avoid undue risks. ]
Just...helping other people. Making them stronger, or less likely to get injured, things like that.
[ kostos is the expert. probably gareth could have just asked kostos. but his grasp upon the fade must be — some days — slippery as a vein. a medium owns a different understanding. ]
Have you worked with Creation before?
[ he's not without some (unvoiced) trepidation. if isaac's aware of anything, it's how thin the line appears between blood magic and his own practice. ]
Have you worked with Creation before?
[ he's not without some (unvoiced) trepidation. if isaac's aware of anything, it's how thin the line appears between blood magic and his own practice. ]
Enchanter.
[ Ilias sounds worn a little thinner than the last time they spoke, particular around the patience, but he's rallying all the same. ]
Apologies for the hour. [ Whatever the hour is -- no later than he'd been in the infirmary, but still. Late enough. ] I wondered if I might entrust you with something a bit sensitive.
[ Ilias sounds worn a little thinner than the last time they spoke, particular around the patience, but he's rallying all the same. ]
Apologies for the hour. [ Whatever the hour is -- no later than he'd been in the infirmary, but still. Late enough. ] I wondered if I might entrust you with something a bit sensitive.
[ Isaac works nights. By now, of course. Ilias knows this. Even comes by from time to time with a pot of tea, or to ask after an herb, or just to say hello, letting a touch linger on elbow or forearm like neither of them have noticed how often that keeps happening. Since Ghislain, he's there a little more often, working at the hand. Three severed tendons that don't quite want to knit.
He isn't there tonight. Where he is, as becomes evident only at the very end of Isaac's shift, is at the end of the fourth floor hallway of the Templar tower, outside Isaac's door. A shadow near the window, head back, pale face meeting with pale hand to exhale a matching shade of smoke from cigarillos he shouldn't be smoking, out into the cold he shouldn't be letting in.
Stubs it out with Circle-trained swiftness, at the approach of steps.
He wishes he'd brought wine. He wishes this were the sort of visit that might have started with a bottle of wine and gone— anywhere. Anywhere else. ]
Can I ask you something? In private. About the battle.
[ The battle was more than a week ago. Sending crystals exist. Ilias is wearing his usual warmth like someone's shrunk it in the wash. That's probably all fine. ]
He isn't there tonight. Where he is, as becomes evident only at the very end of Isaac's shift, is at the end of the fourth floor hallway of the Templar tower, outside Isaac's door. A shadow near the window, head back, pale face meeting with pale hand to exhale a matching shade of smoke from cigarillos he shouldn't be smoking, out into the cold he shouldn't be letting in.
Stubs it out with Circle-trained swiftness, at the approach of steps.
He wishes he'd brought wine. He wishes this were the sort of visit that might have started with a bottle of wine and gone— anywhere. Anywhere else. ]
Can I ask you something? In private. About the battle.
[ The battle was more than a week ago. Sending crystals exist. Ilias is wearing his usual warmth like someone's shrunk it in the wash. That's probably all fine. ]
[ His smile folds away. So much for wishful thinking.
An eye to the hall, but he picked this room to purpose: Ears above to hear a scream, and none to hear anything else. He gestures at the door — go on, then — fits key to lock.
(That'll never stop being strange, the shape of it in his palm. Cold against skin.) ]
Shut the window, there's a fireplace.
[ And more cigarettes. Maker, he looks like shit.
The door creaks open, Isaac doesn't stop to check he's been followed. It's tidier than the sprawl of his Infirmary table, as deliberately ordered as the chaos below must be. Someone's dragged off the second bed, the resulting space far too large for its scant possessions. A trunk, a desk. Candles.
The brush of a hand catches them alight, aid for the dim sun rising through its own, narrow glass. (No bars, and that's strange too.) He doesn't look back to sling down his bag, set to routine. Silence fills its own expectation: What is it? ]
An eye to the hall, but he picked this room to purpose: Ears above to hear a scream, and none to hear anything else. He gestures at the door — go on, then — fits key to lock.
(That'll never stop being strange, the shape of it in his palm. Cold against skin.) ]
Shut the window, there's a fireplace.
[ And more cigarettes. Maker, he looks like shit.
The door creaks open, Isaac doesn't stop to check he's been followed. It's tidier than the sprawl of his Infirmary table, as deliberately ordered as the chaos below must be. Someone's dragged off the second bed, the resulting space far too large for its scant possessions. A trunk, a desk. Candles.
The brush of a hand catches them alight, aid for the dim sun rising through its own, narrow glass. (No bars, and that's strange too.) He doesn't look back to sling down his bag, set to routine. Silence fills its own expectation: What is it? ]
have an extremely clear tag that can't be taken any other way than it's intended IC
wythersake
- 2018-12-10 05:23 (UTC) - Expand[ She's standing outside his door. She realises, after arriving, that it might seem rude, so she is doing her best to remedy that with - ]
Isaac. Are you free?
Isaac. Are you free?
[ To the Chantry's great regret, ]
I've a moment.
[ Not that he particularly wants her in his room. Can hear the footsteps.
The lock clicks open, the sweep of an arm -- after you -- onto space rumpled by sleep. The desk owns a solitary chair, the trunk offers another perch; he ignores both, ignores candles and hearth. Better this be brief.
(The side of his tongue has long grown back; face smooth and pale as if it's never seen a bruise. Like nothing ever happened,
An old ache in his gums.)
Isaac turns to shrug on a shirt. ]
The leg?
[ She's moving better. That's a low bar. ]
I've a moment.
[ Not that he particularly wants her in his room. Can hear the footsteps.
The lock clicks open, the sweep of an arm -- after you -- onto space rumpled by sleep. The desk owns a solitary chair, the trunk offers another perch; he ignores both, ignores candles and hearth. Better this be brief.
(The side of his tongue has long grown back; face smooth and pale as if it's never seen a bruise. Like nothing ever happened,
An old ache in his gums.)
Isaac turns to shrug on a shirt. ]
The leg?
[ She's moving better. That's a low bar. ]
[Oh dear, it looks like a cat has caught something and left it in the infirmary. In unspoiled condition. On a table. Conspicuously. At a time when it's likely to be noticed by the correct person. Cats are clever, aren't they.]
[ it takes him a while to work it out.
there are the cats — and anders, who thinks it charming to disregard isaac's opinion of them — there's gareth, and marisol, and he'd hardly put it past his own paranoia to mistake the tiny corpse for something more than the happenstance that it's owed.
but if he's never had a hand for art, isaac owns a pair of hungry eyes, and the choice of specimen doesn't stretch so far from the fingers to first examine it; what to do about that, another matter entirely. he's aware that his awareness of these matters is somewhat. overweighted. even so, ignoring it, its own small discourtesy.
etiquette's such a bitch.
eventually (airily), ]
What makes a collection?
[ hi. ]
there are the cats — and anders, who thinks it charming to disregard isaac's opinion of them — there's gareth, and marisol, and he'd hardly put it past his own paranoia to mistake the tiny corpse for something more than the happenstance that it's owed.
but if he's never had a hand for art, isaac owns a pair of hungry eyes, and the choice of specimen doesn't stretch so far from the fingers to first examine it; what to do about that, another matter entirely. he's aware that his awareness of these matters is somewhat. overweighted. even so, ignoring it, its own small discourtesy.
etiquette's such a bitch.
eventually (airily), ]
What makes a collection?
[ hi. ]
We were in the same Circle.
[ as were you, but calling attention to certain public spats isn't the most politic way to begin. ]
[ as were you, but calling attention to certain public spats isn't the most politic way to begin. ]
[ A few days, perhaps a week, and then there is a fold of parchment slid beneath the door, sealed with a cypress crest pressed into wax. If the dry hint of incense clinging to the paper and the fine, unadorned script aren't familiar enough, the ink is a particular shade of crimson Isaac might recall purchasing some months ago. ]
Isaac,
This letter was very nearly something else. Another bottle of wine, perhaps. Some simpler token of apology. It seemed unnecessarily dramatic to lay out my thoughts in some grand treatise, as if you would not have a number of valid counterpoints to each. But I hope there is value too in delivering all of this together in ink and paper, where you might have the freedom to consider your answer in your own time.
I should not have involved you in something I did not intend to be transparent about. Other people's secrets are not something I share easily; I ought not to have asked you to do what I would not. It was a thoughtless question, and I am sorry for it.
[ But not, apparently, for keeping said secret in the first place. ]
I have come to rely on your judgement in many things, without asking whether you wish to be so relied upon, or what you expect of me in return. In the process, I suppose I have made some assumptions about the limits of your interest in me. Perhaps it is better ask—
Is my trust something you want?
We have shared things neither of us offers lightly. That alone means more to me than can be committed to paper. But you are very good at avoiding my questions — better even than I am at avoiding yours. It is not a challenge I mind; there is a familiar safety in secrecy for us both, and a pleasure in the unraveling. But what I have of you is not all that I want. If you would have more of my trust, I would ask a measure of yours.
What that means precisely, I leave to you. Ask something of me and I will answer. Allow me a piece of you in return, and I will keep it safe. Or allow me nothing but what you have already given, and I will keep that in my confidence just the same. Whatever you decide, I would have it offered freely, as I do now.
With affection,
[ A distinct lack of signature. ]
[ a few days of their own; a letter tucked where he'll find it later. he hasn't troubled to seal it at all. ]
Ilias,
Of course I want you. That’s the problem of it.
Much as I esteem your discretion, you offer it from the advantage. It's been easier for us both to pretend otherwise. There is a comfort in familiarity, true, as there is little simpler than the weaving of two to one: The blur between a reflection and its image. Skin repeats and we may think ourselves single in nature; seen.
I have made a habit of ignoring the glass.
I don’t have a grandmother, Ilias. No one is watching to see me well — and what you've seen was not all freely shared. I never wanted to give you a monster, but how still you took it in your hands. Familiar. I'd be a liar to claim it didn't trouble me.
You’ve addressed your letter to Isaac, by which you mean me. Montsimmard seldom agreed about that: I was taught to write Isik and Ysaac and Izak. I must have been a dozen such men before a man at all. I don’t have a grandmother, Ilias; I hardly have a name. If you want more of me, care for what you would leave me with. Affection is pleasant. It isn’t enough.
I know that you worry after your tongue, imagine it dusty, but you’ve always done well by me. Isaac. It’s the same in Orlais as Nevarra. It’s not how my mother said it.
[ there's no further signature ]
Ilias,
Of course I want you. That’s the problem of it.
Much as I esteem your discretion, you offer it from the advantage. It's been easier for us both to pretend otherwise. There is a comfort in familiarity, true, as there is little simpler than the weaving of two to one: The blur between a reflection and its image. Skin repeats and we may think ourselves single in nature; seen.
I have made a habit of ignoring the glass.
I don’t have a grandmother, Ilias. No one is watching to see me well — and what you've seen was not all freely shared. I never wanted to give you a monster, but how still you took it in your hands. Familiar. I'd be a liar to claim it didn't trouble me.
You’ve addressed your letter to Isaac, by which you mean me. Montsimmard seldom agreed about that: I was taught to write Isik and Ysaac and Izak. I must have been a dozen such men before a man at all. I don’t have a grandmother, Ilias; I hardly have a name. If you want more of me, care for what you would leave me with. Affection is pleasant. It isn’t enough.
I know that you worry after your tongue, imagine it dusty, but you’ve always done well by me. Isaac. It’s the same in Orlais as Nevarra. It’s not how my mother said it.
[ there's no further signature ]
Edited 2019-04-22 06:43 (UTC)
[There's no curse to excuse this, to preclude tact or secrecy; but these things are no longer necessary. And while he can't guess where Isaac was born, never had a mother of his own to say his name, he's read the name on paper and the Fereldan way of speaking it feels like a knife in his hand.]
Isaac.
[It's unnecessary, and gratifying.]
You were there. Did you take them?
Isaac.
[It's unnecessary, and gratifying.]
You were there. Did you take them?
You'll have to be more specific .
[ he doesn't. the point sticks in his belly, chill and insistent. if anyone were in the room (anders, sidony) they'd spy not annoyance or outrage, but the rarity of real anger: still face, shaking hands. this isn't some quirk of leander's own, nebulous heritage, he's called the name before to different shape.
he'd burned it. even sealed the ashes, what a perfect little show. yours,
the bracelet (its blood) hasn't left his pockets. the firestriker lies with the rest of the grisly collection, and perhaps that was foolish. he'd thought it an acceptable trade; for the grandmother, a passing friend. didn't think anyone would think to draw a connection. to think he'd anything to take.
doesn't know quite why he did. the safest course would be to dash it on a rock. ]
[ he doesn't. the point sticks in his belly, chill and insistent. if anyone were in the room (anders, sidony) they'd spy not annoyance or outrage, but the rarity of real anger: still face, shaking hands. this isn't some quirk of leander's own, nebulous heritage, he's called the name before to different shape.
he'd burned it. even sealed the ashes, what a perfect little show. yours,
the bracelet (its blood) hasn't left his pockets. the firestriker lies with the rest of the grisly collection, and perhaps that was foolish. he'd thought it an acceptable trade; for the grandmother, a passing friend. didn't think anyone would think to draw a connection. to think he'd anything to take.
doesn't know quite why he did. the safest course would be to dash it on a rock. ]
Edited 2019-05-25 01:59 (UTC)
[ Some time ago, ink was put to parchment. Rolled and sealed, it was affixed to the foot of a raven, one of sixteen sent off with care and purpose to bear a heavier burden than paper and twine. Through the thick summer canopy of the Planasene Forest and the leveling tail of the Vimmarks, one wound its way down the banks of the Minanter and found its roost in Hunter Fell. Parchment passed from rookery keeper to errand boy to the paper-skinned hands of a woman who had nearly forgotten there were still things in this world from which one might flinch.
(Expectation is not the same as acceptance. It is easy to imagine, to plan for an inevitability, to hold a certain collection of words in hand and tell yourself they were always going to come to rest there, and it is a blessing the Maker kept them at bay for so long. It still feels like robbery.)
Days pass. Weeks. No personal effects find their way down the Minanter. No letter follows the raven's path.
And so tonight, when Isaac's shift at the infirmary begins, he'll find the room — and more specifically, the stool at his station — less empty than usual. Perched upon it, soft shoed feet braced against one spoke, is a young woman of no more than twenty, dressed in traveling silks of enough drape and gather to suggest her origins before the tidy syllables of her accent confirm them: Nevarran, noble.
Presently twirling a little stalk of embrium between her fingers. The rest of his desk is undisturbed, as if to do otherwise might be beneath her, though perhaps not beneath the man at the far side of the room, a head taller and broader and better armed than the young lady but keeping a substantial distance.
Never mind him. ]
Enchanter Isaac, is that correct? [ Her smile is warm and her eyes bright to see him — brighter than her cousin's, though a similar shade. ] Of Monsimmard?
(Expectation is not the same as acceptance. It is easy to imagine, to plan for an inevitability, to hold a certain collection of words in hand and tell yourself they were always going to come to rest there, and it is a blessing the Maker kept them at bay for so long. It still feels like robbery.)
Days pass. Weeks. No personal effects find their way down the Minanter. No letter follows the raven's path.
And so tonight, when Isaac's shift at the infirmary begins, he'll find the room — and more specifically, the stool at his station — less empty than usual. Perched upon it, soft shoed feet braced against one spoke, is a young woman of no more than twenty, dressed in traveling silks of enough drape and gather to suggest her origins before the tidy syllables of her accent confirm them: Nevarran, noble.
Presently twirling a little stalk of embrium between her fingers. The rest of his desk is undisturbed, as if to do otherwise might be beneath her, though perhaps not beneath the man at the far side of the room, a head taller and broader and better armed than the young lady but keeping a substantial distance.
Never mind him. ]
Enchanter Isaac, is that correct? [ Her smile is warm and her eyes bright to see him — brighter than her cousin's, though a similar shade. ] Of Monsimmard?
[ Oh, fuck.
It doesn’t show; it shows clean through: Features arrange into faint curiousity, fingers tense against the latch. Still beneath lamplight. For half a second he might excuse himself, No, this is Anders, I’ll just go fetch him for you —
He shuts the door, sets down a box. It croaks. ]
My lady, [ Isaac hasn’t written any merchants, wrote only two by Montsimmard.] You’ve the advantage of me. I regret we’ve not been evenly introduced.
[ If it's groveling again, he’d sooner know to whom. The family resemblance is passing enough to pass for something altogether different. He’d written more than one missive. Regrets that nearly so much as their subsequent neglect.
They'll shoot the messenger, he’d thought to tell Matthias, and they've sent someone nearly so young. If the matter demands attention, they've esteemed it (him) little enough to afford a practice round. A cat with a mouse.
Certain outcomes predetermined.
He thinks all this rather than think about the man on the wall. Acknowledging his presence would be a faux pas until pressed. This remains Isaac's territory, and a scuffle here would be unnecessary. There's a whole city to break his knees in. ]
It doesn’t show; it shows clean through: Features arrange into faint curiousity, fingers tense against the latch. Still beneath lamplight. For half a second he might excuse himself, No, this is Anders, I’ll just go fetch him for you —
He shuts the door, sets down a box. It croaks. ]
My lady, [ Isaac hasn’t written any merchants, wrote only two by Montsimmard.] You’ve the advantage of me. I regret we’ve not been evenly introduced.
[ If it's groveling again, he’d sooner know to whom. The family resemblance is passing enough to pass for something altogether different. He’d written more than one missive. Regrets that nearly so much as their subsequent neglect.
They'll shoot the messenger, he’d thought to tell Matthias, and they've sent someone nearly so young. If the matter demands attention, they've esteemed it (him) little enough to afford a practice round. A cat with a mouse.
Certain outcomes predetermined.
He thinks all this rather than think about the man on the wall. Acknowledging his presence would be a faux pas until pressed. This remains Isaac's territory, and a scuffle here would be unnecessary. There's a whole city to break his knees in. ]
Edited 2019-07-02 04:58 (UTC)
[ it's not a spit-take
it's really more of a abruptly choking on water ]
it's really more of a abruptly choking on water ]
One way or another Athessa has brought to Isaac's attention a book, procured for her by Mhavos, called La Langue des Fleurs.
The bulk of the text is translated into Trade, thankfully, but now she's pointing at an illustration. It seems that the notes below each drawn flower weren't considered important enough to translate, or that the translator assumed whoever read the book would actually read the book and be able to fill in that gap.
"J'espère," she reads, in a...passable approximation of the real pronunciation. "What does that mean?" The flower in question is that of the hawthorn tree, lovingly rendered in pastel colors and crowned with a hand-written label.
The bulk of the text is translated into Trade, thankfully, but now she's pointing at an illustration. It seems that the notes below each drawn flower weren't considered important enough to translate, or that the translator assumed whoever read the book would actually read the book and be able to fill in that gap.
"J'espère," she reads, in a...passable approximation of the real pronunciation. "What does that mean?" The flower in question is that of the hawthorn tree, lovingly rendered in pastel colors and crowned with a hand-written label.
"Ah," He squints, points with the end of a pinky (hands occupied with a knife, some sort of root). J — ah. That's what she means. Well, still better than Ilias. "I hope."
"Protects against hexes, or so my mother used to say." If she said any such thing, he doesn't recall. Seems doubtful; Hawthorn trees don't grow in tenements. "Planning a bouquet?"
His manner's breezy. Athessa is pleasant enough company, and she hasn't broken anything yet.
"Protects against hexes, or so my mother used to say." If she said any such thing, he doesn't recall. Seems doubtful; Hawthorn trees don't grow in tenements. "Planning a bouquet?"
His manner's breezy. Athessa is pleasant enough company, and she hasn't broken anything yet.
There's only so long John can feasibly put off the inevitable. The news Teren brings feels as close to a nudge as John cares to receive, so he makes his way to the Infirmary after nightfall.
It is not a quiet approach. The sound of his crutch on stone announces his arrival before he appears in the doorway.
"I assume you've seen the news."
They were successful, after a fashion. And here is John, as agreed upon, to learn whatever it is Isaac is capable of teaching him.
It is not a quiet approach. The sound of his crutch on stone announces his arrival before he appears in the doorway.
"I assume you've seen the news."
They were successful, after a fashion. And here is John, as agreed upon, to learn whatever it is Isaac is capable of teaching him.
He has. Seen it — heard, rather —
The knife is sharp; the thunk of it dull against board — again: a peg and slate. Roots multiply, divide into thin discs, thinner. Preparations.
They're going to war. He's heard the news.
"And its absence." The primary discussions have stayed behind shut door. Must have, for the silence of the yards. It's another moment, two, before he stops cutting. Looks up. "Though that vouches we won't be disturbed."
Isaac won't. Silver, another matter. He's as certain that Commander Flint has thoughts, as he is that Commander Flint hasn't bothered to learn blonde from black (there are only so many mistakes that one may estimate to shock). It rankles; it shouldn't. He's done well to disappear here, and pride an unwelcome guest.
"I'm not a scholar," Sets the blade aside, wipes his hands upon cloth. "But neither is any child. Circle theory, vocabulary, comes later. A way to frame ideas that come less naturally."
Or the natural byproduct of sitting piss-bored in a tower.
"Feelings that come less naturally. Do you follow?"
The knife is sharp; the thunk of it dull against board — again: a peg and slate. Roots multiply, divide into thin discs, thinner. Preparations.
They're going to war. He's heard the news.
"And its absence." The primary discussions have stayed behind shut door. Must have, for the silence of the yards. It's another moment, two, before he stops cutting. Looks up. "Though that vouches we won't be disturbed."
Isaac won't. Silver, another matter. He's as certain that Commander Flint has thoughts, as he is that Commander Flint hasn't bothered to learn blonde from black (there are only so many mistakes that one may estimate to shock). It rankles; it shouldn't. He's done well to disappear here, and pride an unwelcome guest.
"I'm not a scholar," Sets the blade aside, wipes his hands upon cloth. "But neither is any child. Circle theory, vocabulary, comes later. A way to frame ideas that come less naturally."
Or the natural byproduct of sitting piss-bored in a tower.
"Feelings that come less naturally. Do you follow?"
Edited (SORRY) 2019-12-11 06:10 (UTC)
It arrives the day before they're all meant to leave for Nevarra. Within the modest cloth wrapping:
A simple iron bowl, wrought by hand. Around the rim is a thin ornamental band in the Nevarran style, resembling gouged or sculpted clay more than metal. Suitable for ointment, oils, and/or offal. It comes filled with an arrangement of autumn leaves; cradled in the centre of those is a phial of light cologne, with a (more or less) complimentary scent to the strange assortment of herbs Isaac tends to wear.
A simple iron bowl, wrought by hand. Around the rim is a thin ornamental band in the Nevarran style, resembling gouged or sculpted clay more than metal. Suitable for ointment, oils, and/or offal. It comes filled with an arrangement of autumn leaves; cradled in the centre of those is a phial of light cologne, with a (more or less) complimentary scent to the strange assortment of herbs Isaac tends to wear.
[ face pressed to shoulder, cock pressed to — well —
the haze is sluggish to part, even about pointed names. he shifts, and his palm draws unwitting over that old line of scar; the one that bisects two chests: ilias'. another's. the recollection stutters on delay, his fingers stopping short an inch or so past memory. ]
Huh?
[ isn't exactly the sound, isn't anything quite so articulated. he isn't confused. he knows his thoughts, and he knows dreadfully well why ilias might ask them now. but,
shit. his leg's gone to sleep. isaac shakes it, makes another stupid, sleep-muddled sound. ]
What do I ... ?
[ truly, the wit to ensnare highborn blood. ]
the haze is sluggish to part, even about pointed names. he shifts, and his palm draws unwitting over that old line of scar; the one that bisects two chests: ilias'. another's. the recollection stutters on delay, his fingers stopping short an inch or so past memory. ]
Huh?
[ isn't exactly the sound, isn't anything quite so articulated. he isn't confused. he knows his thoughts, and he knows dreadfully well why ilias might ask them now. but,
shit. his leg's gone to sleep. isaac shakes it, makes another stupid, sleep-muddled sound. ]
What do I ... ?
[ truly, the wit to ensnare highborn blood. ]
i promise i'm changing back the icons later i just havent gotten around to it yet
wythersake
- 2020-04-04 06:57 (UTC) - Expandif i die still having to picture danny devito naked i will haunt you forever
libratus
- 2020-04-04 09:15 (UTC) - Expandcrystal, at some hour when no one ought to be in bed together, thank you very much;
sarcophage
2020-02-11 02:45 am (UTC)(link)
[Is Isaac free? Leander doesn't care, he leaves this like a nigh toneless fantasy voicemail regardless:]
Hello, Enchanter, it's Leander. I'm to advise the Seneschal whether the infirmary would benefit from a small amount of funding over a period of eight months, or a larger amount in fewer instalments. At your earliest convenience, please and thank you.
Hello, Enchanter, it's Leander. I'm to advise the Seneschal whether the infirmary would benefit from a small amount of funding over a period of eight months, or a larger amount in fewer instalments. At your earliest convenience, please and thank you.
Eight months? It seems a gamble we'd all be alive.
[ eight months ago, substantially less of the south was under venatori control. but he's blithe enough about it — because this is obviously leander's strange idea of a joke — ]
Don't tell me you're running Pizzicagnolo's errands.
[ harrying him, more like, and even that limp blanket must have his limits. ]
[ eight months ago, substantially less of the south was under venatori control. but he's blithe enough about it — because this is obviously leander's strange idea of a joke — ]
Don't tell me you're running Pizzicagnolo's errands.
[ harrying him, more like, and even that limp blanket must have his limits. ]
Isaac, darling. It's been some time. Shall we do tea?
[ after rifling through a mental rolodex of what venaras might want, and who else could have recently remembered he exists:
(not rutyer. that strikes unlikely. she can't have confused him with anders, though in the man's absence perhaps any blonde will do) ]
Of course. Your place or mine?
[ is a joke. one doesn't invite a young married woman to their rooms, and he's been often enough at the docks of late — this fucking grippe —
he sounds a great deal warmer than paranoia would indicate. chalk it up to practice. ]
(not rutyer. that strikes unlikely. she can't have confused him with anders, though in the man's absence perhaps any blonde will do) ]
Of course. Your place or mine?
[ is a joke. one doesn't invite a young married woman to their rooms, and he's been often enough at the docks of late — this fucking grippe —
he sounds a great deal warmer than paranoia would indicate. chalk it up to practice. ]
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