recreatable | open post.

The testing doesn't go unnoticed, although he finds it a little odd, as if she's never held anyone's hand before. Perhaps she's just seeing what will be the most—in her eyes—believable and tolerable way to do it. He keeps his hand relatively slack and loose, grip purposefully easy to wrench out of.

He can tell, too, that she wants to ask him something. She only gives him that laser focus when there's something scientific on her mind. When she does ask, though, it's unexpected; his brow furrows for a moment, visibly confused. He cannot imagine her giving a single shit whether he's made friends with the crew.

His eyes flick to the side, to the sailor nearby. Ah.

"Yann," he says, because of course he's spoken to the crew. A cant of his head toward the aforementioned Yann across the deck; one of the youngest members of the crew, a little awkward and lanky. "He'll be happy to help you." He'd made a comment about your pretty wife at dinner and then immediately turned bright red.

Joke's on him! She hasn't held anyone's hand before. Not like this: prolonged and in public. Wit had never presumed except behind closed doors. And before Wit...well. Those experiments remain locked behind doors she has no intention of opening.

She flicks a glance toward Yann — young and earnest — and then back to Verso with a small, assessing tilt of her head. She knows perfectly well that he'd have just as much luck with this errand than she will. It might even be more efficient to let him handle it.

But she recognizes that if she hides now — if she stays conveniently absent — she will only teach herself the wrong lesson. She refuses to be someone who lives behind a closed cabin door because the world is unpredictable.

Her chin lifts a fraction, something faintly defiant in the line of her spine.

"Gemheart," she says, borrowing the endearment she'd used when they first embarked — dry, composed, but coloured with something warmer beneath the surface. "I'll be right back."

Only then does she withdraw her hand from his, careful, precise, like disengaging from an experiment she intends to resume later. She smooths her glove, squares her shoulders, and steps toward Yann with the calm, unassailable confidence of a woman who fully intends to acquire water, soap, and dignity in one fell swoop.

Verso resists the urge to ask if she'd prefer he handled the talking. She chose, so he leans against the railing as she walks away, watching her with a raised eyebrow and trying not to focus on the tingly feeling in his hand.

"Miss Hesina!" Yann says as she approaches, dropping the mop in his hand out of a mixture of excitement-horror at speaking to her. He's already blushing. Verso suppresses an eyeroll. "We all missed your presence at dinner last night— that is, I mean, it was a pleasure to have a woman there— not in a strange way, just..."

Oh. Well. This is... inconvenient. Jasnah flicks a glance over her shoulder at Verso — pointed, narrow-eyed: did you aim me at this boy on purpose? She would not put it past him. Although it may be unfair of her to think so.

This — this wide-eyed, lanky creature blinking at her as though she's the first woman he's ever seen — is exactly why she prefers libraries. Whatever their theological baggage, the ardents at least possess the sense (or perhaps the terror) to avoid flirting and flattery in the workplace. And more to the point: most men learned early that "attempt to woo Jasnah Kholin" belonged on a list with "jump off a chasm" and "drink chasmfiend venom." Not that this poor boy was flirting. More like fumbling.

"Yann, was it?" She asks, her voice even, giving him a beat to marvel that she knows his name. "I suspect my husband mentioned it, but I wasn’t feeling well last night."

Only then — deliberately, a practiced stage cue — does her free hand drift toward her stomach. She hates this part of the fiction. Despises it. But she grudgingly acknowledges that Verso's spontaneous invention of an unborn child was, strategically, a stroke of genius.

"I'm still a bit unwell," she continues, mild. "I was hoping to find a washbasin. A stiff-bristled brush. Possibly even some soap...?"

The upward lilt on soap conveys she knows it's unlikely. So be it. If necessary, she'll try soulcasting it herself — she has never soulcast soap, but she is unreasonably confident she can bully the Cognitive Realm into cooperating.

Edited 2025-11-29 21:57 (UTC)

Yes, it was on purpose, and no, it wasn't in order to irritate her. People are much easier to manipulate if they're attracted to you. He knows this well, has extensive experience with casting particularly soulful gazes across the campfire at poor, unsuspecting women—or, if their predilections were obvious enough, men.

Verso watches her touch her stomach and shakes his head in exasperation. Look who doesn't mind Geneviève now.

"Oh! Of course," Yann says, scrambling to go find her a basin. As he does, he calls, "You know, Miss Hesina, I'm flattered that you chose me of all people to ask—" As if getting her washing supplies is a Herculean task. Only a moment passes before he's returning with a basin and brush in hand—and the teeny, tiniest bit of soap anyone has ever seen. Very pre-used. There might be a hair in it.

He holds the supplies out for her to take. "And about your husband," he adds, leaning in just slightly. "If you ever need someone to talk to..." About what he really hopes is her ailing marriage, given the dinner conversation last night. Guy's gotta shoot his shot.

Jasnah accepts the basin and brush with a graceful incline of her head — nearly regal, despite the miserable stub of soap. She notices the hair. She chooses not to react.

But when Yann leans in with that tentative, conspiratorial tilt — if you ever need someone to talk to — her posture stills. Not stiffens. Stillness. Was the sailors' suspicion really that far gone?

She responds to him with a composure so warm it almost hides the razor's edge beneath it.

"How generous of you to offer," she says. "But my husband is..." A beat — she searches for the correct phrasing, something that fits both fiction and truth. "...remarkably steadfast."

She lets the adjective settle. Steadfast. Not charming, not sweet, not romantic. Something firmer. Something earned. He'd earned it last night. All night.

"If I ever need someone to talk to, I have him."

A subtle praise. Not effusive. Not coy. But undeniably loyal in tone — the kind of tone that closes doors gently but irrevocably. Jasnah knows that if she ever needs someone for safe silence, well, she's got Verso for that too.

Her gloved hand adjusts its grip on the basin.

"But thank you, Yann," she adds, with an edge of wry amusement he's hopefully too young to decipher. "If I require counsel about maritime hygiene, I know where to find you."

And with that, she steps back toward Verso — composed, unbothered, and radiating the settled certainty of a woman whose marriage (real or not) is not up for discussion.

To really hit the illusion home, she offloads the entire armful onto Verso with a gentle, affectionate pat on his shoulder.

Edited (omg mobile tagging line break havoc ) 2025-11-29 23:20 (UTC)

Verso takes the items without complaint (save for a small 'oof' as they're unceremoniously deposited into his arms), because, well. He wouldn't expect anything else from Jasnah but utilizing a pack mule so that her—obviously more important!—hands can be free. He does, however, spare poor Yann a glance. The swabbie looks significantly more downtrodden than he had before their conversation, sadly mopping the same spot on the deck floor over and over again.

"He looks as if you just told him he's walking the plank tonight," he notes—what horrible thing did you say to him, essentially.

Jasnah doesn't even spare Yann a second glance. She adjusts the basin in Verso’s arms with an absent, proprietorial tap — hold it steady, the gesture seems to say — and continues walking with him toward the quieter stretch of the deck. Back in the direction of their cabin.

"That," she says lightly, "is the exact expression of a young man who has been reassured that our union is not as rocky as he'd hoped.”

A beat. A tiny tilt of her head toward Verso.

“And. Yes. You were right. Certain rumours needed to be put to rest."

Her tone suggests she considers this basic maintenance, like patching a roof tile or tightening a saddle strap. Filling an inkwell. No emotional weight. No fuss. Just efficient fiction-management.

"If you must know what I said about you, you can ask him yourself."

She's used this tactic before. Leveraging his need to know such things against him. Go tug the thread if you dare, Gemheart. Meanwhile, she's going to wash up.

He does want to know what Jasnah said, of course, and he turns his head to look back at Yann's despondent figure across the deck— but cutting away right now would be so embarrassingly obvious, so he follows her back down to their cabin first, basin and brush and questionable bar of soap in hand.

Once inside, he sets the supplies down atop the desk, mustering up every ounce of willpower not to think of Yann and whatever conversation transpired out of his earshot.

"I'll wait outside the door," he says politely, just in case she's wanting to do a more thorough wash.

Verso's offer is expected, polite, and conventional. And yet the courtesy catches faintly in her chest, somewhere between irritation and something softer she refuses to classify. The irritation is irrational, untraceable, and immediately discarded as useless data.

The door closes with a muted click. She pauses, considers throwing the deadbolt — very sincerely wants to — but leaves it unlocked. Better not to impede his entry if it becomes necessary.

Alone, she steps to the basin and eyes the pitiful fragment of soap Yann had produced. It is, she decides, the exact shade of despair. Her hand hovers over it. Stormlight flickers faintly in the room's lanterns — a reflexive tug. It would be so easy to at least try Soulcasting something clean, proper, civilized. But they are far from safety. Emergencies are not theoretical. And she knows too well the cost of being caught without stormlight to burn. So she chooses the wretched little bar — snaps it in half, keeps the less-offensive piece, and leaves the one with the embedded hair for...later. Or for Verso.

She peels off her safehand glove, sets it aside with deliberate care, then flexes her exposed fingers once — acclimating to the vulnerability, even in solitude. She wets the soap; it barely lathers. Thin suds cling to her palm, slipping between long, precise fingers.

Her hands first. Methodical, almost meditative. Then her face — brackish water stripping away smudged makeup and travel-grime, leaving her bare-featured. There's nothing to be done about cosmetics on a ship; she accepts that fact with a quiet, resigned exhale.

Next, she unbuttons the line of buttons from jaw to waist, lets her havah fall loose, and gives the rest of herself a brisk, efficient scrub. Hard, unforgiving bristles raise red lines on her skin. Cold water trickles down her ribs; her breath catches from the sharp bite of the chill.

Halfway through, she realizes she's humming. Clinging to a distraction as she tries not to think about why this ritual scrubbing is so important to her. Tries not to think too hard about why she hates the build-up of sweat and oils, like being left alone for days...So she hums. Just a fragment. A scrap of melody from Verso's midnight vigil — the one he restarted three times, hoping she slept. She cannot reproduce it accurately; her musical intuition is abysmal. But still it emerges, faint, tuneless, settling gradually into something steady.

When she finishes, she buttons herself back into propriety, rolls down sleeves, and slips once more into her safehand glove. Scrubbed raw, cleaned, recalibrated. She almost tells him through the door that she's done. Almost. But the ruse must remain intact; no husband stands sentinel like a servant. So instead she cracks the door, leans out into the corridor, black hair unbraided and falling in a heavy curtain.

Her expression shifts the moment she sees him — something like a quirk of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"I left you some soap."

Or rather: she left him the faint, philosophical concept of soap.

Verso looks at Jasnah—bare-faced, damp hair clinging to her forehead, smelling faintly of soap—and says nothing. When he enters their cabin again, he picks up the minuscule piece of soap between his thumb and forefinger, examining it. Carefully, he plucks the hair out. It's long and white, perhaps from one of the Thaylen men's eyebrows or beards. His nose wrinkles involuntarily.

"Merci," he says dryly.

Not keen on wasting time, he gets to work wetting his hair immediately. As his fingers run over his scalp, he lingers absentmindedly at the roots of his hair, wondering if the white is growing in yet. He'll have to find a new way to cover it up here; no more visits to the Gestral barber so that his apprentice can accidentally turn it purple. If there are salons in Urithiru, he doesn't know. Perhaps he should ask Jasnah, or even better, ask if she can do that special magic to turn his hair permanently black the way she transformed his wine.

He breaks off a piece of the already broken-up soap, like splitting atoms at this point, and rubs it between his palms before lathering—for some given value of lathering—it into his hair.

"You can just turn around," he offers. Paranoid as she's been these past few days, he figures she might prefer not to be left out in the hall alone. Besides, he's done his fair share of communal bathing in the river with Expeditioners—whatever preciousness he might have felt about it has been beaten out of him.

— You know, even before he offers for her to just turn around, she probably shouldn't have been watching. But she does watch. She watches him groom the soap. She watches him say that word that he sometimes says when people ordinarily say 'thank you,' whether sincerely or not. She watches him eke out whatever lather he can, and...

And, oh yeah, maybe she should extend him the same courtesy he extended her. It's not that she was eager to see more than she ought to, but she was caught up in thinking through the various linguistic distributional tests that led to her conclusion about what merci means.

Without a word, she turns slowly on a heel. There's no shyness or embarrassment. No blush, no fluster, no anything except a sense of fair play and equitable treatment. Well, apart from the fact that she got the first rinse of the water and he's stuck with the second. She stares at the cabin wall and squeezes water out of the damp ends of her hair.

"Above deck, I wanted to ask," Jasnah's low volume fights against the acoustics of their cabin and the muted splashing of water, "if there was much travelling done by sea on those...expeditions."

Can't simply let the man wash in peace. Maybe he should have asked her to step outside.

Verso laughs.

No, clearly he can't wash his hair in peace. The questions are charming when they aren't insistent and interrogative, though, when they don't bring to mind things he'd rather forget. So, he humors her.

Muffled, as he shucks his shirt off over his head: "Lumière is separated from the Continent by the sea." As he explains, he gets to work scrubbing down his top half, quick and perfunctory. Bathing is not a particularly luxurious experience for him, given that for the past 67 years he's been without indoor plumbing. "So, every Expedition has to sail a bit." Even the ones who make it no further than the beach.

"And if you wanted to make it to the Paintress's Monolith"—which all Expeditions do, but few have—"you'd have to sail from the Stone Wave Cliffs to the old battlefield, then make your way to Old Lumière and disembark from there."

There's an almost rote quality to the way he describes the journey, like he's done it a hundred times before. He very nearly has.

"Obviously, that's not convenient," he continues, because nobody's lugging a giant ship across a monster-infested landmass like that; it's why he hasn't been on a ship in decades. "But you could also use... Esquie." A whole other can of worms, which Verso is half-certain he's going to regret opening. "He's, uh— imagine a giant, sentient marshmallow that can fly." Makes perfect sense, hopefully??

Hair well and truly squeeze-dried but still damp, and with nothing else to do while she stands turned away from him, Jasnah folds her hands behind her back. Her posture rocks gently with the swell and fall of the ship, muscles firing to keep her stable. Steady. Upright. And fixed enough in place that she successfully resists the urge to glance over her shoulder and ask, pointed, what's a marshmallow?

Distributional tests don't help her here. Is a marshmallow a kind of ship, but one that flies instead of sails? Like the Fourth Bridge. Except the Fourth Bridge isn't sentient, unless you count the spren used in its fabrials. There isn't enough context to narrow down his meaning, so the frowns at the wall and weighs whether it's worth asking after or whether she should continue down the original path of inquiry.

"Is that what you do?" She hems, haws, opts to ask about him directly even though she's had less luck discussing him than the broader context of his world. "Use...Esquie. Rather than sail."

She's talking around his seasickness, of course. Wondering whether it's an affliction he suffers often or avoids.

"Uh—"

The hesitation is more out of the multitasking of bathing than it is reluctance to share. Esquie is one of his favorite things in the world. He misses him all the time, and the thought that Verso may never see him again—that Esquie may no longer even exist—is extremely unpleasant. Besides, there's no risk to sharing Esquie with her as there might have been with the Expeditioners. He doesn't have to worry about her climbing on Esquie's back and going home.

It's an incredibly cursory washing of his lower half, as he says, "Yeah. Most of the time. Esquie is my... friend."

Best friend, he can practically hear Esquie say.

He quickly pulls his clothes back on, shaking out his wet hair like a dog. Long-suffering and weary: "But he'll only fly for you if he has Soarrie— oh, that's, uh, his pet rock..." Is Jasnah following all of this?

Edited 2025-11-30 18:33 (UTC)

Her head tilts. Her eyes trace the knots in the wooden walls as her thoughts trace the ups-and-downs of what Verso says. Okay, so Esquie can't be an airship (sentient or otherwise) if Esquie is his friend. His friend with a pet rock. Or — can he be? Her frown deepens, but only the wall gets to witness it. But, eh, who are we kidding? Verso can probably anticipate its existence by now.

Alright. Assumptions recalibrated. Instead of an airship, she imagines a Windrunner. Windrunners transport people all the time, these days. Carrying them long distances via surgebinding. An undignified way to travel, and one that Jasnah has managed to avoid thus far. She isn't sure she'd trust any of them, frankly. Not even Stormblessed. Especially not Stormblessed.

But wait. Didn't he say Esquie was also giant?

"His pet rock." Yep, there it is! Her frown, bending the vowels and consonants just so. "Is the pet rock relevant to the flying, or...?"

Verso, does your friend have an emotional support rock? She's not judging. Well, maybe she IS judging. Just a little. But who is she to throw stones (ha!) when she'd just as quickly admit that she doesn't...really have her own friends.

How do you say my best friend is a giant children's toy who was created by a little boy to help him when he was sad? You don't, obviously. Instead:

"It's— complicated," he says. Does Esquie actually need the rocks, or does he just think he does? Sometimes Verso wonders if it's all just an excuse to get him to go on weeks-long adventures looking for the damn things, but— no. Esquie is the most purehearted creature there is, and quite frankly, Verso doubts that he's capable of deception.

"He has all of these different rocks," he explains, except it doesn't really explain anything, "and he knows them all by name, and he... believes he needs them to do things like swim and fly." Whether he actually needs them or not is up for debate, but if nothing else, it's a psychological block.

"But he's always losing them," Verso finishes with a sigh. Always losing them.

A pause, and then he gently pokes her between the shoulder blades—carefully, so as not to frighten her with his approach. "He'd like you."

Storms, her mind races to formulate the next best question. Does Verso even realize this is the most cooperative and forthcoming he's been on a personal subject since they'd met? Oh, he'd said plenty about piano scores, about Lumière, about dogs. But even when he'd spoke at length about his sister, he'd...

Well. She doesn't dare break the spell. So she's thinking about asking Verso to catalogue the different uses of the different rocks, just to keep him talking. She enjoys him talking. When the conversation aligns just right, and she manages to set him on a tangent, he's just the right mix of quick and...

— Jasnah stiffens under his gentle prod. All his caution can't counteract the deeply alarmist current in her blood. A steep inhale, and the stormlight flickers and dims in the brazier on the wall. It hits her veins like ice, like instinct, although she recognizes seconds too late that it's just him. Letting her know it's 'safe' to turn around. Light leaks from her lips as she turns around, exhaling likely the same amount she would have needed to simply soulcast the damned soap. The light in the room stays dim.

There's an awkward shuffle. An adjusting of her havah, looking away from him as the glow seeps out of her eyes. Magic, wasted on her hair-trigger apprehension. Jasnah clears her throat.

"...—Why?"

Why would he like me? It's a dull, silly, thoughtless question. The kind of question she avoids. But right now, she'll ask it to smooth over the humiliation she feels for jumping at shadows.

Oh.

A misstep, clearly. He'd meant his touch to be soft enough that it wouldn't frighten her, but even that had alarmed her. His mouth is open to say sorry, but then she speaks, obviously trying to sweep it under the rug. For just a moment, he flounders, mouth still open, before he steps back and allows her to pretend that didn't just happen.

"...Well, he likes everyone." He was made to love Verso, warts and all. Loving everyone else is easy comparatively. "But he likes my friends best of all."

He'd be happy Jasnah is keeping him company, really.

Friends. Knee-jerk skepticism flickers over her face. Jasnah doesn't have friends. She has family — for whom she'd do just about anything. And she has her colleagues, her fellow Veristitalians, whom she appropriately calls her sisters. Even Jochi, although he's a Theylan baker in his sixties and hides his identity for obvious reasons. Well. Obvious to her.

— It's Jochi who she intends to find the moment they make landfall in Theylan City.

But they're still at sea, Jasnah has just nearly iced Verso because of a different kind of knee-jerk reaction, and also he just implied they're friends. Are they? She stares at him a moment longer, only now noting his dripping hair. Some shadowy part of her brain takes note that this is what it looks like before it dries in thick, full waves.

Data points. All data points.

Her expression relaxes. Jasnah retreats behind a scoffing protest: "You can't possibly have suggested I'm too unfriendly this morning and then call us friends now."

It's not an unexpected response, and he bats back smoothly, "I said you were my friend. I didn't say I was yours."

He steps away after that, retreating to the bench and attempting to arrange his hair by feel. His hair is tricky business; if he's not careful, it'll dry fluffy. (Fluffier, anyway.)

"Esquie would like your questions," he continues, because it's true. Esquie loves enthusiasm and excitement. There'd be nothing more gratifying to him than witnessing Jasnah's academic spirit of inquiry. Maybe they have that in common. "But he'd answer too many of them in riddles."

He's silent for a moment, a little wistful. Fuck, does he miss Esquie and all of his ridiculous riddles.

"—Anyway. As I said, too much sea travel is inconvenient. It's much easier to hop on Esquie's back and fly places."

...Something in the firm set of her mouth quirks upward. Brief, quick, maybe a mixed result of his banter and the notion that Verso's flying-sentient-marshmallow-friend-whatever would like her questions. Or maybe she half-smiles because of how the brain sorts stutters and resets after a rush of adrenaline. Most likely, it's a little bit of everything, underpinned by the relief she feels along her scalp and skin after a good scrubbing.

Jasnah remains where she stands, but her eyes track Verso across the room. She doesn't hide how she watches him work and fuss over his hair. For the time being, it doesn't appear as though he needs her to step in again and correct anything.

"Hence your delicate stomach," she surmises. "No sea legs."

Rude!! But true. Even travelling the seas on Esquie had been different; much faster, for one, and no stomach-churning swaying like a boat.

"I prefer inexperienced stomach," he grouses, although without any actual offense. Yes, he has a delicate stomach. A few more attempts at getting his hair to fall just right—which will probably backfire once his hair actually dries, but at least he tried—and then he lets his hands fall into his lap.

"I guess immortality doesn't inoculate you against seasickness." At least, not his specific brand.

"My apologies," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Inexperienced."

A step back, a step back, a step back, and her shoulders touch the cabin wall. It isn't personal — but in the aftermath of her slight surprise, she'd prefer to have her back against something solid.

"I wonder why not. Stormlight," her eyes cut to the dimmed brazier, "could almost certainly be burned to soothe an upset stomach. Even Radiants who have only sworn their order's first oath can access that kind of healing. If your immortality allows you to recover from fatal wounds but doesn't alleviate the mundane aches and illnesses..."

Hmm. She considers her words carefully.

"That strikes me as cruel."

Verso raises his eyebrows, first because of the admission that she has healing abilities (that she decided not to use when he was suffering of seasickness) and then because of the accusation of cruelty. It's hard to argue against it, although he does feel the urge to. Not cruelty, just— thoughtlessness. Painters rarely seem to think of anyone but themselves, he thinks, although he feels a bit guilty for it right after.

"As cruel as letting me hold in vomit all night when even a first oath Radiant"—whatever that means—"could have soothed my sickness?"

It's a call-out, but a very light one. He lets it roll off of his shoulders.

"Well, I told you. It's a curse."

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