recreatable | open post.

She smiles to herself. Kharbranth's library is, undeniably, a crown jewel. Not merely of the Vorin nations, but of all Roshar. A pity, then, that it belongs to King Taravangian and his city-nation. Alethkar has never cared much for grand repositories of knowledge; it prefers its power displayed in armies and banners. In Kholinar, she would have found the shelves wanting if not for the simple fact of her birth. A princess's access. Spoiled, in some respects. Ruined, in others.

...Kholinar. It stings, a little, that she cannot show Verso the city that ought to be the seat of Kholin power. The Windblades rising like titanic ribs from the earth. The red-white-orange strata cutting the skyline into impossible geometry. The roar of the Impossible Falls. The measured quiet of Sunmaker Park. The last time she walked those streets, she was the king's elder sister. If the city is reclaimed — when it is — she will return as its queen.

Verso is still talking, outlining what Monoco might enjoy. Jasnah realizes she's been listening only in fragments, her thoughts orbiting all the places she cannot offer him. A small shake of her head banishes the spiral, and she gathers herself back into the present.

(She is woefully unused to her mind behaving so...fuzzy.)

"Is that so?" She murmurs with dry amusement. "The competition in our dueling lists is quite fierce."

Conversation ebbs and flows after that. She finishes her pastry with dutiful precision. Time stretches. Fatigue creeps in despite herself, answers coming slower, questions trailing off. Eventually, exhaustion claims her, and she slips back into a shallow doze. An irony not lost on her that a gut wound should succeed where insomnia so often ruled.

Verso is left to his own devices until Jochi ascends from the bakery below. He carries a basket braced against one hip, filled with small meat pies and fresh bread. Under his other arm, a bundle of folded clothing, indistinct for the moment. If Verso is still bare-chested, Jochi finally grants him the appreciative glance he didn't get from Jasnah. Unabashed, approving, punctuated with a low chuckle. However, if the shirt has been dried and donned, Jochi merely sets the basket down and asks fondly after his sister-scholar:

"How's our wounded chicken? Just as spitting mad as usual?"

Verso, tragically dressed now (albeit in a still slightly damp shirt) and therefore unable to receive the ogling he was deprived of earlier, glances up from the table where he's still idly sketching on the card backs. Furrowing his brow, he asks, "Chicken?"

For a moment, he has no idea who Jochi could be referring to, because obviously no one would ever call Jasnah a chicken. Not if they valued their life. But Jochi does, and Verso supposes this is just the sort of thing that a decade-long friendship allows you. Monoco and Esquie can call him plenty of things that most people wouldn't dare. Verver, for one.

"She's still breathing," he says with a shrug, glancing over at Jasnah sleeping on the divan. With a conceding cant of his head, he adds, "...And she's alert enough to ask questions."

So she can't be doing too badly.

Jochi sets the basket on the counter. Careful and persnickity, he empties its contents in a tidy row. A few smallish pies, a loaf of bread, a wedge of sow-milk cheese. A bottle of something dark and amber, waggled with a cheery hum. The older man has a marvelous propensity to be both jovial and serious all at once. Like someone took a wizened old teacher and stuffed him into a humble baker. Duality at its finest.

"Good, good." He answers, dusting off his apron with a swat before hanging it by the door. "Can't have her expiring in my apartments. Don't fancy explaining that to the Blackthorn, har har har. Although I've always said Jasnah herself is the scarier one."

He blithely prattles on about things he simply expects Verso to know. As if it's inconcievable that someone travelling this closely with Jasnah Kholin wouldn't know that the Blackthorn is her uncle, albeit by an outdated title.

But at least he prattles quietly once he realizes his friend is asleep. However, walking near enough to realize she's asleep means he also notices her missing glove. A quiet, disapproving grumble. Speaking around the topic, he tosses a roughspun blanket at Verso and suggests he should cover her up so she doesn't get cold. He's a sharp man beneath his friendly persona, so he understands the need to dispense with decorum, but he also clearly has a bit of a protective streak that feels a bit...well, silly.

"What's your name, son?" He gruffs and grouses.

God, what the fuck is this guy talking about. Verso stares with a glassy-eyed sort of look until Jochi moves on to a more understandable topic: the not-so-subtle implication that he should cover Jasnah's hand. Honestly, he'd forgotten about it as the glove dried and she'd slept. He'd been so focused on the cards that he'd only spared a few glances over her way, instead using the soft sound of her breathing as his indication for how she was doing.

Obediently, he sets his pencil down and stands over Jasnah, covering her with the blanket as gently as he can manage so as not to wake her. While he doesn't know much about the process of healing for a person who isn't as immortally gifted as he is, he does know that rest is an important part of it.

"It's Verso," he says congenially, carefully arranging the blanket so that it covers her from toe to shoulder, hand hidden underneath the fabric. "Sorry we couldn't meet under better circumstances." Like as a customer at his pastry shop, for one.

Jochi squints at him for a long, appraising moment once the name is offered. Not suspicion, exactly. More the look of a man rifling through an already overstuffed mental cabinet, deciding which drawer a name like that belongs in. Weighing its sounds. Its edges. Probably wondering what corner of Roshar it might have wandered in from.

"Verso," he repeats, rolling it once on his tongue. "Huh."

A grunt follows. Approval, or something close enough to count.

"No," he says more quietly, "The circumstances aren't ideal." His gaze flicks, briefly, toward where Jasnah lies sleeping, and something in his expression softens, goes tight at the edges. "And I'd rather this weren't how I finally met her face to face."

He steps closer and offers a hand, solid and floury. "Jochi," he introduces himself in turn. It isn't his legal name, of course, but since Verso arrived in Jasnah Kholin's wake, he'll get the baker's nom de plume.

Afterward, Jochi's attention drifts back to the counter. He reaches for a dark, amber-filled bottle from the basket, works the cork loose with a practiced twist, and frees it with a soft, satisfied pop He inhales once, approving, then sets the bottle aside within easy reach. He lifts a second and offers it to Verso.

"Storms. I'm far too old to host a political incident."

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Then, noticing the spanreed that isn't blinking and therefore has no message waiting: "...Didn't get hold of her mother, did she?"

No one had mentioned Navani when Verso had found him earlier to ask for a spanreed. Jasnah hadn't even mentioned her to Verso. But Jochi correctly assumes Jasnah's target audience all the same.

"Mother?" he asks, and it's obvious in the way his eyebrows raise that he had no idea that Jasnah's mother was who they were trying to contact. Admittedly, he hadn't thought about it too deeply. Contacting Urithiru, she'd said; he'd assumed that meant some sort of staff or advisor. Someone whose job it is to sit around and do nothing all day but wait at her beck and call, maybe.

Mother, though, he hadn't even considered.

Reluctant to make it even more blatant, he schools his expression back to neutrality as he returns to the table. "No, uh, nothing back." He worries his lip. "Is that bad?"

"Bad?"

Hmm. Jochi slips into what must be a habit — a quick, intentional weighing of the possibilities.

"Tough to know. Could be there's trouble in Urithiru too. Most likely, Nosy Navani hasn't found all of her daughter's spanreeds, and doesn't even know there's a message actually meant for her."

He shrugs. Clearly, Jochi has a loose relationship with respect for monarchical authority. At least, it's not like the Kholins are his royal family. As for the topic at hand...? It's not a great plan. But he'd been able to understand Jasnah's thinking the moment Verso had come down to the kitchens asking for that particular spanreed. He'd been on the receiving end of one too many of Navani's failed attempts to glean information from Jasnah's spanreed network before; it made perfect sense that the daughter might use the mother's meddling to her advantage. But it was always going to be a gamble.

—Oh. Verso realizes, suddenly, that he's alone (sort of) with someone who has a decade's worth of experience on him when it comes to Jasnah. Who knows things about her he could only guess at. He has a unique opportunity here, if only he plays his cards right.

He pulls out his pencil again, thickening a line here and there as he says, very casual, "'Nosy Navani'?"

(Sort of) alone — but easily enough to say the acoustics and layout of the flat is conducive enough to a discreet conversation between two newly introduced strangers.

Jochi takes a swig of whatever ~~wine~~ale he's drinking. Ultimately, his energy is that of your high school friend's gruff awkward dad who's really into WWI history. Rough around the edges, but disastrously nerdy. A tough thing to be in a society that would prefer its men weren't nerds at all.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean any disrespect to the Kholin matriarch. Especially not in front of one of you Cobalt Guard stiffs." So Jochi is simply running with that assumption? Cool. "Jasnah's mother used to sniff around her spanreeds from time to time. You could always tell. Different handwriting. Missing passcodes."

Cobalt Guard. Sure. Whatever Jochi wants to think. Verso still hasn't figured out how Jasnah wants him to play this, and he's reluctant to assume. Seems like she wouldn't take well to him making an ass out of him and her.

His brow furrows at the information. Weird. Aline could be overbearing, but not 'reading his correspondence' overbearing. Exacting standards, yes, a few disapprovals of girlfriends here and there, but never snooping around in his letters. Maybe, though, that was because she knew that there was no part of him that was hidden from her. Not a thought in his head that hadn't sprung from hers first.

"Why would she do that?"

Jochi squints at him. Not unkindly. More with the faint irritation of a nearly septuagenarian who has, for a moment, forgotten that not everyone in the world was already an adult when certain rumours first caught fire.

Back then, they'd been everywhere on the more salacious spanreed networks. Whispers and lurid speculation about Gavilar Kholin's daughter, passed pen to pen with unseemly delight. Outside Alethkar — and, storms, even within it — people had wanted the new conquering king to fall. His daughter's supposed lunacy had been framed as a convenient fracture in his political armor.

Jochi exhales through his nose.

"I reckon she was worried about her," he says at last.

By the time he and Jasnah began corresponding, those rumors had long since burned themselves out, replaced by darker, more immediate ones — this time orbiting the king's brother. But privately? Jochi only knows what he knows because he's good at assembling fragments. Because he listens. Because he reads between lines that were never meant to be explicit. It's not as though he and Jasnah ever spoke of it outright. But he's a Veristitalian, same as her.

"She only ever asked who I was. She wanted to be sure," he adds, quieter now, "that her daughter was exchanging messages with real people."

A pause.

"And not ones she'd invented."

Jochi draws quieter, and Verso's pencil stops its movement so that he can turn his gaze on the man imparting this secret information. Information that, if Jochi's tone is any indication, Jasnah wouldn't want him to know. Of course she wouldn't—he already knows everything about her that she wants him to know. She's made it that way on purpose.

He feels a little pang of guilt for prying, but it isn't strong enough to make him stop.

"What do you mean, 'invented'?"

Jochi exhales, long and slow. He occupies his hands with the bottle for a moment, fussing with the cork, setting it aside, pouring a modest measure into a chipped cup he never offers. A habit. A stall. Incorrigible, really; even among academics, the instinct to contextualize outweighs discretion. Besides, none of this is truly secret. It's all there in old broadsheets and archived speculation, if one knows where to look. Silence doesn't erase ink.

He answers without looking at Verso.

"I mean exactly that," he says. "People who weren't there. Conversations that never happened. Things only she saw or heard." His mouth quirks, not unkindly. "There were nasty stories when she was a child. I assumed it was political crem-slinging. Everyone wanted leverage against Gavilar Kholin. The talk eventually died down, as it always does."

He pauses, then continues more carefully. "By the time Jasnah and I began writing, she was...well. Herself. Sharp. Grounded. If she'd ever been unwell, it was long past. But her mother never stopped worrying. When Navani reached out, asking me to confirm who I was, I realized she was still checking the edges. Making sure the world on the other side of her daughter's words was real."

Only then does Jochi glance toward Jasnah, sleeping fitfully on the divan. Something tightens in his expression.

"I suppose," he says quietly, "that means some part of those old rumors must have been true enough to make her mother's fear linger."

He doesn't know how to react.

Jasnah had mentioned being sick, but he'd assumed— well, that's the problem, isn't it? He'd assumed. And then, dieu, he'd brought up Alicia and all of her burns, likened it to what she'd been through. Jasnah didn't correct his inaccurate assumption, either, which means he must have made her feel too embarrassed to share the truth with him.

Perhaps unfairly, he has a sudden flash of her saying how she detests prevarication.

"Oh," he finally says. "Well, you know how rumors are. Probably exaggerated."

He clears his throat, that little flash of guilt he'd felt for prying turning in to a much bigger flash of guilt. "Is there somewhere to get dinner around here? I'll bring something back for when she wakes up."

Jochi lets the silence sit for a moment after Verso speaks. Not pointed; just...considered. He corks the bottle again with a soft, practiced press of his thumb. Rumours, Jochi thinks but doesn't say. Maybe exaggerated. Certainly misused. And very convenient when someone wants to explain away a girl who doesn't behave as expected. He'd never ask Jasnah outright, but in the aftermath of the Radiant Orders refounding...? He can't help but wonder about the root of those original rumours. He glances at the divan, where Jasnah sleeps, smaller now than her reputation has ever been.

Practical again: "There's a Herdazian stew place two streets over. Hearty. Salty. But the real draw is their chouta. As for the lentil one. Easy on the stomach."

He looks like he's about to say something else — the words are weighed, measured, found insufficient. So, after a shake of his head and a mouthful from his chipped cup, the old baker says: "Go. I'll keep an eye on her. I've got time before the next rush."

Ugh. It feels as if he knows something he isn't supposed to. How does he even begin to broach this subject? Maybe he shouldn't at all. Jasnah won't like that he's learned something about her against her will. And—

One thing at a time. Herdazian stew. Sure. Verso heads to the shop, asks for chowder, and spends five minutes arguing with the man at the counter before they finally realize that it's chouta he's searching for. How was he to know? Jochi had said stew! Regardless, he returns with two handfuls of substantial flatbread filled with lentils and gravy, setting them on the table when he walks in.

"Hey," he says with a couple taps on Jasnah's shoulder to rouse her. Then, gesturing for Jochi to come closer: "We should probably get her upright."

Jochi looks up from the crate he's half-emptied, three books already stacked beside him like contraband treasures. He wears the faintly manic glow of a scholar who has at last discovered a captive audience and fully intends to abuse the privilege. There is a palpable delight in the idea that Jasnah might be confined to his apartments for days. Forced, at long last, to read the works he's needled her about for years.

At Verso's words, he pauses. Sighs. Long-suffering, indulgent.

"Yes, yes. Eating. Breathing. Tedious biological necessities," he mutters, sliding the last book back into its hiding place with visible reluctance. He shuffles over, rolling his shoulders like someone preparing to hoist a sack of flour.

Jasnah — who has been sleeping with the depth of the truly exhausted — stirs at Verso's touch.

It isn't dramatic. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. Just a low, disgruntled sound in her throat, followed by a faint crease between her brows as consciousness trudges back in, clearly uninvited. Her hair has slipped free of whatever careful order it once held before the attack; dark strands cling to her temple, her cheek. She blinks once. Twice. Her gaze is unfocused, dulled by pain and the heavy drag of having been pulled back.

Then she sees Verso.

For a fraction of a second, something in her expression eases. Not relief, exactly. Recognition. Something known and familiar. Her mouth softens, the ghost of a smile threatening before habit reins it in.

"Hrm," she murmurs instead, voice rough, more vibration than word. "How long did you let me sleep?"

How long was I gone this time?

Jochi snorts as he and Verso help her sit up in earnest. He's horribly fond, even as he needles her. "Awake and complaining already. What a storming joy you are, Jasnah Kholin. You're much nicer over a spanreed, you know. After this fellow's done nothing but look after you..."

As she's brought upright, a quiet, involuntary hiss escapes her. Her left hand drifts instinctive and disobedient toward her abdomen before she stills it with a tightening of her jaw. The hand remains bare. Jochi notices. Of course he does. His mouth twitches; his eyes flick briefly to the exposed hand, then away again, a faint crease of disapproval settling between his brows. He says nothing. But he clocks it, the way one does an unfastened door or a dropped guard.

Jasnah, for her part, has decided not to care. Or, more precisely, she does not have the surplus attention required to care. Verso has made no fuss about her safehand, and so she denies it its power.

Her gaze shifts instead to the table. Flatbread. Steam. The warm, grounding smell of lentils. She exhales through her nose, eyes closing for a heartbeat longer than necessary. When they open again, she looks human.

Exhausted. Frayed. Present.

Still very much alive.

Verso's gaze lingers for half a second longer than is necessary. He likes seeing her unwound and unraveled, more than he should. She looks less intimidating—but not unintimidating—this way, softer and more human. She looks like somebody he could reach out and touch. He doesn't, instead choosing to bring her chouta over to the end table and set her up the way he'd done earlier. A wordless, thoughtless favor.

"A few hours, maybe," he answers, since Jochi has been so unhelpful. Corner of his mouth trending up, just slightly: "You were almost about to set a new record." For 'hours slept'; he knows now that even when she sleeps, it's rarely a full night. They have so much in common!

And, since he's sure she'll want to know sooner or later, he adds, "Nothing on your magic pen yet." 'Magic pen', just because he knows it'll piss her off. He knows what it's called now.

Magic pen? Jochi mouths from somewhere behind Verso, eyebrows arched in scandalized disbelief. Jasnah ignores him entirely, gaze fixed on Verso as she calmly reasserts: "Not magic. Fabrial technology."

Hook, line, sinker. Her brow creases with a flicker of irritation as she rises to his bait.

But then she moves on, adjusting her posture with a muted grunt and edging herself closer to the front of the divan. A careful accounting of pain and leverage. Her eyes track to the chouta in assessment. She starts by tearing off a piece of flatbread soaked in sauce, quietly pleased to find it spiced and savoury.

Behind them, Jochi clears his throat. He produces a jug of water from the kitchenette, sets it within reach, and offers a shallow bow that lands somewhere between courtesy and comedy. Then he begins excusing himself — kitchens to clean, tills to count, apprentices to scold — already halfway gone before the list is finished.

Before he disappears entirely, he adds, "Fresh clothes are on the chair," and, as an afterthought that is absolutely not an afterthought, "And a copy of On the Epistemic Limits of Vorin Determinism if you get bored."

The door closes. The apartment settles.

When they are alone again, Jasnah picks up the loose threads of the conversation as if she never dropped them. "Maybe it's a good thing if we don't hear back. With any luck, the attack was isolated. Directed at me. Nothing that should ripple back to Urithiru." Her gaze drifts somewhere past Verso's shoulder, toward the city beyond the walls.

When she glances back, it's sidelong rather than direct.

"Not the most enjoyable way to spend a couple days in Thaylen City," she allows, starting to imagine the timeline of her recovery without stormlight to speed it. Her mouth draws into a tight line. Worry over Ivory flooding her all over again.

Verso shrugs. "I've had worse weekends." And he has; despite everything, Jasnah is still alive, and he's spending her time recuperating indoors with her rather than out in the wilderness, cold and uncomfortable. Yeah, he's definitely had worse weekends.

He makes his way back to the table so that he might eat his chouta, too. The lentils taste a little different than the Le Puy lentils he's used to, but not bad. A bit spicy, but not enough to upset the stomach. Jochi was right: a good meal for someone recovering from a wound.

"Jochi said you were sending a message to your mother," he ventures, carefully not mentioning that it's because Jochi said Navani might be reading her correspondences. "She'd probably be expecting you back, wouldn't she? Or at least to hear from you?"

Thoughtfully, Jasnah chews. Her appetite has finally found its way home and the first mouthful draws a small, needy grumble from her stomach. She has her mouth full when Verso asks about Navani, so it takes her a moment to finish chewing and swallow before she answers.

She does, however, send a sharp glance toward the stairway where Jochi disappeared back into the bakery. Hmm.

"It isn't unusual for me to take extended research trips to Kharbranth," she says at last. "Give it a few days and she'll begin to wonder. Once I'm...a bit steadier on my feet, we can approach the Merchant Council here in the city. Thaylenah is part of the Coalition of Monarchs. They're allies."

There is a pause, a subtle hitch in her cadence that betrays caution. She is not eager to move too quickly, too publicly. Not yet. She wants to be able to manage the stairs under her own strength before testing her luck further.

But, Jasnah knows, too long and her mother will worry. She has done this to her before. Vanished. Presumed dead. Left Navani to mourn.

Changing the subject — in a way she assumes is not at all conspicuous — she points a finger at the card deck sitting off to the side. "You've kept yourself busy."

It's conspicuous, because it's the same thing Verso does when he wants to avoid a subject. Wow, is it always that obvious when he does it? He can't believe no one ever called him out on it. Then again, he notes Jasnah doing it and says nothing, so maybe he's part of the problem.

He wants to pry further, wants to ask about her mother going through her private letters and the people she fears Jasnah would 'invent', but he doesn't. Can't. It's already obvious how that would end, and it isn't with Verso getting answers. So, he locks the knowledge away until a time at which it can actually be of use.

"Not much else to do here," he answers, shrugging. "Save for read On the Epistemic Limits of Vorin Determinism, and... I figured I should start with Vorin Determinism for Dummies first."

Another bite of chouta. She is, Jasnah notes with faint surprise, making remarkably short work of the meal. A good sign. Or perhaps she simply prefers this to the pastries from earlier. Much like with the stew aboard Torreth's ship, the evidence continues to mount that she is poorly equipped to notice, consider, or source her own meals, yet performs admirably when food is placed directly in front of her. Blind to hunger until it is solved for her. An inelegant system, but an effective one.

Even so, she does not quite finish the wrap. Not because she is full, exactly, but because something else more interesting steals her focus. She leaves it only half-eaten, brushes her fingers clean, and reaches for the deck of cards. She winces at the movement — sharp, localized pain — but it is not enough to deter her. She wants a closer look at the newer card backs.

While she inspects them, her attention lifts only briefly toward Verso.

"Do you need me," she asks lightly, "to define determinism for you?"

If the question offends him, then good. It is a deliberate pivot — a clean, decisive step away from discussing when, why, or how Navani might receive that spanreed message.

The question does offend him! Just lightly, but all the same. His eyebrow twitches, but his scoff is closer to affectionate exasperation than true upset.

"Didn't I tell you that I was the top of my class?" He did, to which she said that meant nothing without knowing the details of his classmates. Whatever. Hopefully she won't remember that. "I know what determinism is."

To prove it: "It's the belief that everything is fixed to happen a certain way." Which is probably very much a Determinism for Dummies description, but hey. He's a musician, not a philosopher. "It's the Vorin part I know less about."

She turns an ace over in her hands. The care in it is unmistakable. The patience in each line, the tiny deviations that only show themselves if you're looking for them. At first glance, they're identical. On closer inspection, each one carries its own small insistence on being different. She finds that...pleasing.

Her gaze flicks briefly toward the book Jochi left behind. "That one was supposedly written during the Hierocracy," she says, more conversational than professorial. "When the priesthood ruled everything worth knowing."

She taps the edge of the card against her thumb as she speaks. "They restricted scholarship. Claimed exclusive authority over scripture and prophecy. That's when all the fuss about masculine and feminine arts really calcified. Knowledge parceled out, roles assigned, and free will became a clerical inconvenience."

She turns to the next card, tracing one of the curlicues with her bare left finger. Deliberate, faintly defiant.

"That book argues against it. Or claims to. I suspect it's apocryphal, but the sentiment is sound: the idea that a life can be reduced to a prescribed outcome is intellectually lazy. Jochi wants to convinced me it's a foundational part of priesthood's undoing, but I suspect it wasn't actually published until well after."

Another small turn of the card. "The irony, of course, is that when the Hierocracy fell, the priesthood lost their freedom. No land. No property. Bound to light-eyed houses as advisors — slaves, really."

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slides back in here

the fun never stops!!

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