recreatable | open post.

Every new escalation in Verso's impatience is a glimmering little victory. Were she less practiced at schooling her emotions, she might even have drawn gloryspren at the sharp cut of pride felt when his toe taps just a little faster.

— All of it is dampened only by the stark, sudden feeling of a different puzzle locking into place. His nursed breakfast biscuits; the bowl he volunteered for her last night. A different hypothesis forms, circling around his condition. Although, it's far to say she's got a leg up on her conclusion 'cause in her experience Wit didn't require food.

Enough, enough. What a bore, thinking about her ex when she could be timing out how long it takes the potential new Queen's Wit to lose the grip on is self-restraint.

"It is," Jasnah acknowledged. "I ate it cold last night, too. Somehow, the chill improves the flavour. I can't explain it."

One more mouthful.

Is she— she's eating slow on purpose. He can't imagine why, seeing as she'd been just as enthusiastic about the idea of a card game as he had been. More, really. Verso's enthusiasm was far more ignited by the artistry of creation. Of creating something for someone else. The only possible explanation is that she enjoys watching him struggle even more than she'd enjoy getting to the game, which is...

Hm. He taps his foot again.

"Well, that's good. You're eating for two, after all."

Warfare is clearly the only way to end this.

Jasnah dips her spoon, stirs the stew, and goes through the painstaking performance of chasing down a lump of something quasi-identifiable as a potato. She chews thoughtfully, swallows carefully, and then sets about the hunt all over again.

Jasnah flashes a smile, just to ensure all her hard work convincing the ship's crew that their marriage is legitimate doesn't go to waste.

"Yes. All thanks to you, gemheart."

Who needs Towers to teach ruthless military strategy when she's got...whatever the Hells this is.

"You know, I've been thinking. Twins run in the family."

Hurry up or he will add another fictional child to this story!!! He'll do it!!!!

Thunk, thunk, thunk. She taps the edge of the spoon against the bowl, then brandishes it lightly, vaguely in his direction. A go ahead, fuck around and find out kinda gesture. Jasnah Kholin nearly murdered her own cousin because she thought it might secure a safer, better future for this planet. She's not about to blink when threatened with a second fictional baby.

"Think very carefully about what you say next, Verso."

First name retaliation, activated!

What he finds out from his fucking around is that he finds it strangely stirring when Jasnah says his name in that tone; he wants to keep pushing his luck, hear her say it again, which is probably an indication that he shouldn't. Visibly relenting, he leans back out of her space. "...Take your time, chouchou."

No sibling for Gen-Gen.

And she most certainly does take her time. In this case, the poor quality of the stew becomes a boon. It almost discourages a person from eating too quickly. But eventually, at a point that certainly strains patience but does not beggar belief, she scrapes the last spoonful from the bowl. Upon finishing, she pushes it away and sits back.

Jasnah doesn't say it, but the glance she spares him seems to impart a well-earned well done.

Aloud, all she says is: "Shall we retire?" As she stands from the table.

Don't have to ask him twice. "Yes, I think we shall." He stands, too, just an instant after she does. The sailor sitting opposite them looks relieved that he'll no longer have to bear witness to this weird, uncomfortable tension.

As he steps out of the mess hall, he turns back, voice lowered and somewhere between exasperated and entertained. "Has anyone ever told you that you're impossible?"

The satisfaction sparks sharp and bright beneath her ribs — he caught her maneuvering exactly, and more importantly, he understood it. Anything less would have been disappointing.

"Frequently," Jasnah replies without missing a step. Then, a tilt of her head, eyes cutting toward him as cross the open deck under a star-speckled sky.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're alarmingly transparent?"

Edited 2025-12-04 03:02 (UTC)

Ha.

"—No," he can honestly say. "Perhaps you're uniquely talented at seeing through me." Probably not. Seeing through impatience is one thing; seeing through a person is another.

When they return to their cabin, he gathers up the little stack of handmade cards on the desk, straightening them against the desk before turning around and holding them to his chest so that she can't see them. He'd just spent all of this time itching to get back here and show her, but now that they're here, he says, "On second thought, maybe I am hungry. You don't mind waiting, right?"

There's a little half-smile on his face. He's just teasing.

The moment the cabin door clicks shut behind them, something loosens in her — subtly, almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders ease a fraction. Her breath evens. The rigid, watchful tension she keeps coiled behind her ribs on deck finally slips its leash. Here, in this cramped little room with its bolted furniture and laughable porthole, she can allow herself not to treat every passerby as a potential threat.

Naturally, this is the exact moment he chooses to be insufferable.

She watches him shield his little stack of cards with all the theatrics of a man guarding classified intelligence. His posture is so absurdly pleased-with-himself that she refuses even to indulge the metaphor forming in her mind. Alethkar could never actually supply her with the appropriate analogue of a schoolboy hoarding stolen sweets, but it's something along those lines.

"The idea that you could endure even five minutes without revealing whatever you've been itching to show me since dinner?" Her tone is flat but amused. "I don't believe it for a moment."

Her half-smile mirrors his half-smile. Like she'd said: transparent. Then she extends her right hand, palm up, expectant.

"Stop stalling," she says, quiet but implacable. "And hand it over."

So you knew I was itching to show you, he resists saying. Instead, he presses the little stack into Jasnah's palm—yes, pleased with himself, specifically because he's done something that he thinks she will like. It isn't about making something that he thinks is good; it's about making something that other people will approve of. Renoir had always chided him for lacking that internal locus, for looking at his own art with other people's gazes instead of his own.

He sidles up beside her to watch her go through the cards. How similar a Towers deck is to traditional playing cards is still unknown, so he narrates as she looks at them:

"There are four suits of thirteen ranks. Spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs." The patterns of which were all lovingly etched into each card. "Two to ten, an ace, and the court cards—king, queen, and jack." A pause. "I guess you might see them as a king, queen, and Wit."

That bit is the bit she likes best. The I know that you know that I know of it all. Rather than incidental contact or brushing fingers, Jasnah finds her thrill in the complicated web of social behaviors that either devolve or grow between a pair of confidants. And — and she supposes that's a little how she's beginning to view him. Perhaps not a friend, but a confidant. He must be, for her to have stomached even the thought of sleeping in the same room.

She fans the first few cards out against her splayed fingers, eyeing the symbols and patterns. She doesn't need an explanation for what a 2 or 3 or a 4 is, because the pattern does all the heavy lifting for her. Smoothly she swaps those characters in her mind for the appropriate tallies in marks with which she's more familiar.

It is a shade remarkable that he did all this in the hours between being assigned the task and now, minus the detour of sitting and watching her eat her dinner. She might have expected some variance in the size or straightness of the cut. But it's all quite...well, good. Approval hums low and brief in the back of her throat. Unsurprisingly, the craftsmanship of the cards themselves strike her first before the art itself.

But then she cards across the court. The king, the queen, the jack. Her attention lifts briefly when she sees the illustration on the queen. An odd little frown when he flips the jack to a Wit. Nevertheless, that's the one she lifts between two gloved fingers. The Wit of Spades.

"What's the value of the court cards?"

She understands that he's likely waiting for a verdict. He'll get one, if he's patient. But at least this time the delay isn't purposefully inflicted so much as required. A jaunt of time to let her observe, process, and think through her review and how she'll choose to give it.

Verso notes that little frown, wonders if it makes her think of someone she'd rather not remember; she hadn't seemed particularly reticent to speak about her previous jester-musician-whatever he might be, but she did mention that he was unliked. Jasnah probably wouldn't appreciate him creating more trouble for her. He had 'left', she'd said, but maybe she fired him instead, and now the memory is unpleasant.

"We can just call that one the Jack." An easy comment, unbothered, so as to lessen any discomfort she may feel.

"The court cards are all worth ten in vingt-un. The ace can be worth either one or eleven, depending."

There's something philosophical to be said about the worth of a card being determined by the cards around it rather than its own intrinsic value. Verso doesn't have time to ponder that, though, as he's too busy letting his worth be determined by what Jasnah makes of his creation.

With put-on nonchalance: "Go on, you can say it. You're impressed."

Eerie how Verso seems to breath conciliation like it's oxygen. Jasnah hadn't been aware of her own frown or her own hesitation until he was already leaping ahead to smooth it over, smooth it away, dismissing that they should call the card anything other than Jack. Her frown remains; she flickers it towards Verso, instead. She doesn't like this sensation. Of having her feelings managed.

But it doesn't diminish his accomplishment, sorry to say. She flips the card over, looks at its back, and then once again its front. Examines a king instead.

"Better than I expected," she concedes. "Remarkable detail work. Crisp edges."

Probably doesn't quite scratch that itch he's got. Sorry. Not sorry.

Better than I expected is a bit of a backhanded compliment. What did she expect, he wonders, but he tries not to dwell on it too heavily right now. ...He'll dwell on it later, when he's trying to sleep.

"There are... improvements to be made," he admits, endlessly critical of his own work. There's not an imperfection that he hasn't already sniffed out. "But I can work on the backs later."

They're mostly bare, but he has big plans for the intricate patterns he plans to painstakingly draw out on all 52.

Improvements? Oh, now that catches her by surprise. She can see the cards aren't perfect (how could they be, given the tools and materials available to him?) but they are nevertheless a feat. So perhaps she ought to have said so.

Almost pathological about it, she slots the cards she'd been examining back into order within the deck. She knows she feels some kind of way about it, but she resists the urge to investigate what exactly. He may have made the cards, but they paradoxically feel like they belong to her. It's her paper, her inks, her pencils. Maybe they belong to the pair of them together. They are a cornerstone of something bigger, just out of focus.

"You did well." She at long last offers her scant praise. In her mind, it's effusive. "And with so little to do it with."

Jasnah...doesn't return the deck. She holds the cards fast, steady in one hand. She knows it's time to transition into a lesson — to learn how to play the game — but there is first a very important problem they must solve.

One table, one chair, both bolted to the floorboards. One chest, across the cabin, also bolted to the floorboards. She stares — thoughtful — at the narrow bed before shaking her head. Entirely inappropriate.

"Should we..." a rare note of uncertainty, "sit on the floor?"

Coming from Jasnah, it might as well be effusive. You did well. It's hardly anything at all, but it'll still rattle around in his brain for the next 24 hours. After all, that's what this was all for. It wasn't for the love of creation, or even because he was bored and wanted something to do; it was to please her. And he's succeeded, it seems, if only marginally.

He looks at her, noting that small bit of hesitation in her voice. It's very rare to hear her sound anything but confident and commanding; even her questions can sound like statements. There's only a moment of pause before he takes off his coat, folding it far more neatly than he usually does until it's a nice little square of fabric. Then, he places it on the floor, gesturing to it with a flourish.

"A royal cushion for Her Majesty."

Edited 2025-12-04 21:33 (UTC)

Oh. Perhaps she should have expected such a gesture. Yet, it also comes as a surprise. Jasnah would have sat on the floor. She could have sat on the floor. But she's also not about to scold the man for scraping together a bit of comfort and offering it to her. Gift horses, mouths, etc.

"—Obliged." She murmurs, and pauses for a split second while she decides whether to sit first or wait for him to be the first of the two to lower themselves. They'd already endured one stand-off, tonight. And, again: gift horses, mouths, etc..

She gathers the skirts of her havah in one hand, clutches the deck with the other, and eases into a sitting kneel. Once on the floor, she also places down the cards. Tidy, a about a foot directly in front of her. Indicating, subtly (or not so subtly) where she expects him to sit across from her.

Jasnah looks every bit a queen in her prim little kneel; Verso feels like he should try to show some regality as well, out of deference or something like it, but he has all of the body language of someone who's lived in the woods for 67 years. He settles down on the ground, crossing his legs and straightening his spine so that he at least doesn't look like a complete slouch in front of her.

He takes the cards, because despite what she thinks he views them as his first and foremost, shuffling them as best he can. He attempts some fancy shuffle tricks, but the cards are made of regular paper rather than proper cardstock, and it doesn't look nearly as impressive as he wishes it did.

"One normally makes bets during vingt-un," he says, and idly thinks that that's probably frowned upon here, too. "But since you're still learning, we can just practice."

She studies the cards in his hands with a scholar's interest and a woman's private amusement. The little flourish he attempts — was that meant to happen, or merely gravity winning a brief skirmish? Hard to say. She isn't sure which possibility entertains her more.

And then — ah. Gambling. She had sensed it circling the conversation like a skyeel waiting for the right updraft. Vorin doctrine is maddeningly specific on this point: wagers on known qualities are acceptable. Bets on unrealized outcomes are heresy, too close to fortune-telling for anyone's comfort. A completely arbitrary loophole, one that reveals more about the human appetite for convenient morality than about any true principle. But it keeps half the taverns in the Breakaway Market afloat, so who is she to protest.

Jasnah shifts her weight — not restless, simply accommodating the folded coat beneath her knees. With her left hand she smooths a corner of it into alignment, an unconscious gesture of order imposed on disorder.

She almost tells him that even junior scholars used to gamble in the stacks of the Palanaeum — quiet little contests slipped between shelves, staking treats or borrowed texts on the outcomes of logic puzzles. She'd won often, but it had nothing to do with fortune-telling. But the memory lingers on her tongue a moment, then dissolves. It isn't relevant, and it indulges him too much.

Besides, he is the instructor here. He's made an intentional choice to begin without stakes, and she respects the shape of a lesson when she sees one.

So she exhales once. A precise, grounding breath. And then inclines her chin.

"I'm listening."

"Well," he says, "I think the best way to learn something is to attempt it yourself."

A twitch of his mouth, and he adds with a hint of humor, "I'm a hands-on learner." It's the sort of autopilot flirtation that doesn't actually mean anything. It couldn't mean anything, because Jasnah has already proven maddeningly immune to his charms, and she'll be his employer soon, besides.

The shuffling done, he places two cards in front of each of them, face down. Patiently explanatory: "So, we'll both look at our cards, and we'll leave the top card face-up."

Being who she is — and how she is — Jasnah lives in that perpetual borderland between comprehension and application. She hears Verso's casual innuendo; she categorizes it; she discards it. A reflexive flick of mental scalpel. Harmless. Undisciplined. Not worthy of deeper examination. To her, it says more about Verso's impulse control than an indication of anything...more.

At most, it reminds her — unhelpfully — of another person who mistook proximity for invitation. She shuts that door with practiced precision.

So she looks at the cards.

She doesn't wait for his prompting. She leans forward, smooth and decisive, retrieving both cards from the floor. A 10 and a 2. The 2 she recognizes instantly; the 10 takes a heartbeat longer as she counts the small painted sigils, committing them more firmly to memory. Her eyebrows lift a fraction.

"Twelve," she murmurs, the number rolling off her tongue like a problem being rounded into shape. Hard to say whether she doesn't realize she's meant to keep them secret or she knows but simply doesn't because this is (after all) a practice round.

"Show me the part where strategy comes in."

So impatient!!!

"So impatient," he agrees with the narration.

Verso chooses to believe that she understands that her bottom card is meant to be kept secret, or if not, she'll realize it soon enough. Better to let her come to the conclusion herself than possibly embarrass or offend her by telling her immediately. This is a practice round, so he treats it like one.

He flips over his top card, the Jack of Hearts, blissfully unaware that Jasnah is currently seeing the card that he just said could symbolize her ex-boyfriend surrounded by symbols of love.

Still patient in his explanation: "So, my top card is worth ten. The chances of me having another Jack or a ten or a two are lower, but not impossible. Out of the 49 cards left, though, there's only three cards that could make my hand equal to or lower than yours, and there's no card that could make my hand higher than 21."

A beat. He glances at her, a little questioning, seeing if she's still following.

— A little like star-crossed lovers, they misunderstand one another. When Jasnah makes a mistake, she welcomes being informed of it. But such poor understanding goes both ways because, frankly, she has no idea that the weird sharp-but-bumpy symbol is indeed associated with love of any kind.

Nevertheless, somewhere out in the wider Cosmere, Hoid is laughing manically at the dramatic irony.

...But then, watching him explain his cards, she finally does realize her error and she hums, disappointed, and slides the 2 back onto the playing space, facing down once again.

"And...you want to avoid going higher than twenty-one?"

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