"Hey," he jokes, "plenty of people would pay good money for this show." Luckily, he has never been on the Expedition 33 subreddit and learned that there are, in fact, people out there who would pay good money to see his feet.
The wiggling stops, though, and he slips his sock back on so that she doesn't have to look at it anymore. Instead of putting his boot back on, he takes the other one off, instead, setting them beside the divan.
You look pretty when you laugh, he doesn't say, because he's certain it'll be taken the wrong way. He does smile, though, leaning against the end of the divan. "So that's how I get you to smile. You're a toe person."
Wait, she thinks, has he been trying to get her to smile? Or is he simply saying so? Jasnah doesn't let the mystery reach her expression — instead, her smile still lingers. Well, her smile and a shortness of breath courtesy of a gut wound that doesn't much care for belly laughter.
"I'm absolutely not a toe person," she counters — still a little breathless.
Hopefully by now he's got some grip on when her accusations are true-serious and when they're true-playful. This one, a hundred percent, is one of those true-playful accusations. Like somehow even in banter, she can't help but lean a little hard on accurate, consistent rhetoric.
"I'm not a toe person," she sorta laugh-sputters. Caught up in the moment. Feeling entirely too safe after his little demonstration of bare appendage solidarity. "I'm not an — not an anything person."
She laugh-sputters, and his heart sputters that same beat, like call and response. Ah, fuck. Of course, he'd known he was attracted to her; attraction is a familiar feeling, something that requires no emotional input whatsoever and has therefore been a cornerstone of his interactions with others for as long as he can remember. Attachments have historically been doomed before they ever started, so he's spent the better part of 7 decades entirely shut off from the feeling he's feeling now.
A fancy. An interest. A schoolboy crush.
"I guess not," he says, leaning back a little. "I must have made spurious conclusions from confounding variables."
"Believe what you want to believe. Who am I to stop a man when he's set on making his own mistakes?"
It rides that familiar, perilously thin line between a heartless scolding and a heartfelt one. Either way, her scolding is always earnest. The difficulty has only ever been only in whether the listener can distinguish between her attempt to help or harm.
She leans back as well, the base of her skull meeting the plush backing of the divan. A slow breath through her nose. The last of her laughter is brought to heel. Then she angles her head, eyeing him sidelong with something sharp and faintly amused.
"I don't sound like that," she says, needling. Spurious conclusions from confounding variables. "No one actually sounds like that."
"Perhaps," Jasnah says lightly, "you are not as literate as I had hoped."
If he can't weigh those two sentences against each other and recognize which one sounds more like someone play-acting at scholar. Except she's pretty sure that he can, of course.
"My apologies," he says, not sounding sorry at all. This leaning against the edge of the divan thing is pretty uncomfortable, so he perches there instead, albeit while still giving her a wide berth. "My brain's not quite as big as yours."
He knocks the top of his head with his hand. "See? Practically hollow."
She searches his eyes a moment longer — or as much as she can, tilting her head just enough to steal the glance. For a fleeting instant, Jasnah wonders if he's angling for a protest, a correction, a continuation of the sparring.
She gives him none of it.
Instead, she says, calmly and decisively, "Let's play cards."
You know, if she'd just asked him if he'd like to play cards, he'd have said yes. But he figures asking when she knows she can command is one of those little social games she doesn't understand the point of, so Verso doesn't point it out, only says, "All right," as he pushes himself up and goes to gather the cards.
There's no real good playing space here, and he'd rather not move her to the table when she's in such a condition, so he opts to sit on the floor in front of her, cross-legged.
"But you should know I just spent my last sphere," he says, in case she's hoping for betting. He got totally cheated.
Admittedly, she hadn't thought through the logistics, so it briefly catches her off guard when he takes a seat on the floor. The arrangement is faintly absurd — but, somehow, less absurd than his recent toe performance. So she settles into it with a touch more aplomb than she otherwise might have managed.
Jasnah extends her hand. She wants the deck. She wants the authority of the deal.
"If I win two out of five hands," she proposes, cool and precise, "you read me a chapter from a book of my choosing."
Verso shuffles one-handed, taking his time both to show off and to feed her impatience. He knows it'll irritate her to sit there with her hand outstretched waiting for him to be done.
He raises an eyebrow at her chosen 'prize', openly skeptical; firstly, it's something he'd be willing to do anyway, and secondly, it's something that he can't really imagine why she'd want. Sure, he's read plenty a book aloud to Alicia, and he fancies himself a damn good narrator, but he highly doubts his narration style will appeal to Jasnah. He does the voices.
"You can ask for something better than that, you know," he says. Then again, maybe she just wants to revel in the oddity of watching a man read. Like a dog playing poker. "—And you don't have much faith in yourself. It's usually best two out of three."
And irritate her it does. Enough that, after a short while, impatience sharpens into action and she curls her fingers back toward her palm. Give them here. She is, as ever, a paradox: demanding, yet almost constitutionally incapable of asking. Part of that is the unavoidable arrogance bred into her station. Another part is more insidious. She is a queen who cleaves to a doctrine insisting it is good (necessary, even) to sacrifice the individual for the greater whole. With that framework lodged so firmly in place, how could she ever justify wanting anything for herself?
Perhaps that's why she cannot summon a wager more elaborate than this: a familiar, steady voice easing her into an afternoon doze with lines and lines and lines of...let's be honest, Vorin determinism. Surely delivered dutifully and without embellishment.
Still, his criticism pricks. Just enough to raise a thin tendril of self-consciousness. Rather than defend the wager itself, she pivots. She chooses instead to dismantle what she believes is the weaker flank of his argument.
"Out of three?" Her nose wrinkles, dismissive. "No. It's either out of five or out of ten."
Holy numbers again, probably. Let's all be grateful they're not on Scadrial where everything would be in sixteens.
"Ten?" he asks incredulously. They are not doing best two out of ten, sorry.
He continues painstakingly shuffling the cards, this time passing them from hand to hand. Just making sure they're really, truly, super shuffled! It has nothing to do with payback for her making him wait in the mess deck, nope.
"This is a Lumièran game with Lumièran cards," he points out, "and I thought you enjoyed learning about other cultures."
With a pointedly innocent smile: "Best two out of three. And if I win, you'll agree to call for me before you get up again." A far more pragmatic wager than hers.
— Jasnah takes a tactical, steadying breath before folding forward and reaching, despite the injury, to catch his wrist. The grip is light, but deliberate. Hard-won, and arguably ill-advised, given that he is currently negotiating over the terms of her last ill-advised exertion. Still. There is something about his pointedly innocent smile that provokes something like an urge to erase it entirely.
Affectionately, of course. Unfortunately, these sorts of instincts and emotions are rarely straightforward.
"Agreed," she says, the word ground out with resolve. Then, without releasing him: "But I deal."
"Hey," he can't help warning. Babe, you're gonna dehisce. "You could have asked nicely."
As usual, there's nothing here that she wants that wouldn't have been freely given if she'd just expressed a desire for it. But this is a card game, not a therapy session, so he lets it pass, handing her the deck.
As she deals: "I have to admit, I expected you to bet for something more academic." A shrug. "A treatise on gestral culture, or a live demonstration of my..." He waffles a bit before landing on, "Regenerative qualities."
Considering his earlier display of fancy shuffling, there is very little left for her to do. Jasnah skips ahead to the practical portion and deals them each two cards. It's a touch awkward, given the disparity in their elevations, but she adapts — setting the remainder of the deck on the divan beside her knee. The end table is just a bit too tall to be sensible while he's seated on the floor.
Her visible card is a four; the hidden one, a six. She notes both, then deliberately waits for his verdict first, following the order he laid out back on the ship.
In the interim, she counters: "I am absolutely not about to obligate you into such a demonstration via a card game."
Apparently that is a bridge too far. Or perhaps she's simply developed a conditioned aversion to pressing the subject. She keeps discovering new and inventive ways to unsettle him when she does, and even Jasnah can recognize a flawed experimental variable when it repeats itself.
Verso turns over his top card: a King. He realizes only just now that the king is holding his scepter the exact same way Renoir holds his cane. Ugh.
"It's not..." That big of a deal, honestly. Except the reason that she even thinks that is because he'd made it into a big deal; he hems and haws for a moment, contemplating what to say. "I don't mind that you have questions."
And he doesn't! If he can entertain and delight with his immortality, then good. It's just— "I reacted poorly before, because..." He taps his cards a few times, then says, "I had an unpleasant experience, once. My companions saw my immortality firsthand, and I was abducted and interrogated."
He conveniently leaves out the part where he escaped with a little murder.
"But it isn't fair to judge you on someone else's merits." A beat, then he looks down at his cards again. "I'll hit."
There it is. That half-obscured, quickly pivoted flicker of sincerity when he speaks about himself. As if lifting a cup in a shell game and revealing, briefly, where the trinket actually lies. It sharpens her attention to a knife's edge. Her appetite, too. And despite his reassurance, she resolves to ease off. To go slowly.
(But something bone-deep and quietly lovely settles in her chest at the simple fact of being told I don't mind that you have questions.)
She chews her bottom lip, thinking. Then, reaching to the small pile of cards on the divan, she deals him a third card. A third for herself as well.
Jasnah is self-aware enough to recognize how easily she can sound like an interrogator. Self-aware enough to note how thin the semantic line is between between abduction and being stranded in a strange world, dependent on a single, familiar person. Silently, she resolves to do better. Be better. It's the kind of quiet promise Ivory would have approved of. Meet your potential, he would say.
"—Is there," she begins, carefully, "any manner of demonstrating your regenerative qualities that you find...acceptable?"
No. Even that is the wrong word. Acceptable? Surely it still hurts. She frowns, recalibrates.
Lightly: "Well, as long as I'm not being torn in half by a Nevron, it's a step up."
It does still hurt, yeah, but he likes to think he's gained a sort of tolerance to it. Or maybe he's just gotten good enough at mentally leaving his body that nearly anything has become endurable. He takes a look at his cards—the King of Spades, a 3, a 4—and sets them back down.
Nevron. The monsters out on the continent? Her nose crinkles at the thought of him torn in two. No, thank you. Not the kind of evidence she'd be eager to witness. Although it does make wonder all kinds of inevitable questions. Namely, what happens if both halves are separated? Do both heal into two separate men? Does one falter and die, while the other regrows its missing portion? Maybe those questions are a bit too steep for this inchoate, tentative peace-making on the topic.
"Same," Jasnah says as she flips her three cards against her knee for him to see: a six, a four, a ten. Twenty, total. She's quite chuffed with this one.
Carefully, approaching her curiosity from a more careful angle: "Would you regrow a lost limb whole-cloth or would you require the original limb in order to heal it...back together? So to speak."
Verso flips his cards, too, and shakes his head at the defeat. With a competitive glint in his eye, he holds up his finger. One. One out of three, currently. He reaches for the deck beside her, then carefully slides her cards off of her knee. Of course it excites him to be so close to touching her knee; at this point, the excitement is so often and so predictable that it's hardly notable to mention.
As he reshuffles the cards, he answers, "That... depends. I have some measure of control over it." Not enough to stop it from happening completely. Staying alive isn't a choice, but the body in which he does that is, hence the unhealed scar. "If a limb were to, say, disintegrate entirely, I would regrow it."
This time, he holds the deck back out to her. Go ahead, deal. "But if it's still around, I prefer to bring the parts together. Feels less weird that way."
To be fair, she simply assumed his scar predated his immortality. Something, perhaps, about the housefire he once described. Given how such healing works on Roshar — old wounds cement into one's self-image, and then remain fixed — it seems like a straightforward assumption.
But his measure of control is interesting. She nods along to his description, watching as he generously shuffles for her. Card shuffling would be a masculine art, to be sure. When he finishes, she takes the deck with a murmured word of gratitude. Loud enough to b heard; not so loud as to detour their conversation.
"—Can you be tattooed? Is that what you mean by having some measure of control over it?"
A serious, legitimate, academic inquiry. She knows of a man whose nascent Knight Radiant abilities foiled every attempt to set ink in skin. It would just wipe away, apparently. Jasnah had not been able to secure a primary source on this anecdote, of course, on account of her thinking Kaladin Stormblessed is a self-righteous annoyance and she can't be bothered to ask him herself.
Good question. "I've never tried," he admits. "There aren't exactly any gestral tattoo artists on the Continent." Then, explaining, because he's not sure if he ever has— "They're made of wood. They wouldn't know what to do with human flesh."
He wouldn't actually mind a tattoo or two, honestly, but it's never really been an option. The last thing he wants is a sentient paintbrush coming at him with a needle. Sure, he could heal any artwork mistakes—which they'd probably make—but the trauma would last forever.
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The wiggling stops, though, and he slips his sock back on so that she doesn't have to look at it anymore. Instead of putting his boot back on, he takes the other one off, instead, setting them beside the divan.
You look pretty when you laugh, he doesn't say, because he's certain it'll be taken the wrong way. He does smile, though, leaning against the end of the divan. "So that's how I get you to smile. You're a toe person."
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"I'm absolutely not a toe person," she counters — still a little breathless.
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Hopefully by now he's got some grip on when her accusations are true-serious and when they're true-playful. This one, a hundred percent, is one of those true-playful accusations. Like somehow even in banter, she can't help but lean a little hard on accurate, consistent rhetoric.
"I'm not a toe person," she sorta laugh-sputters. Caught up in the moment. Feeling entirely too safe after his little demonstration of bare appendage solidarity. "I'm not an — not an anything person."
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A fancy. An interest. A schoolboy crush.
"I guess not," he says, leaning back a little. "I must have made spurious conclusions from confounding variables."
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It rides that familiar, perilously thin line between a heartless scolding and a heartfelt one. Either way, her scolding is always earnest. The difficulty has only ever been only in whether the listener can distinguish between her attempt to help or harm.
She leans back as well, the base of her skull meeting the plush backing of the divan. A slow breath through her nose. The last of her laughter is brought to heel. Then she angles her head, eyeing him sidelong with something sharp and faintly amused.
"I don't sound like that," she says, needling. Spurious conclusions from confounding variables. "No one actually sounds like that."
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Enough said, he thinks.
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"Perhaps," Jasnah says lightly, "you are not as literate as I had hoped."
If he can't weigh those two sentences against each other and recognize which one sounds more like someone play-acting at scholar. Except she's pretty sure that he can, of course.
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He knocks the top of his head with his hand. "See? Practically hollow."
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She gives him none of it.
Instead, she says, calmly and decisively, "Let's play cards."
Not a question.
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There's no real good playing space here, and he'd rather not move her to the table when she's in such a condition, so he opts to sit on the floor in front of her, cross-legged.
"But you should know I just spent my last sphere," he says, in case she's hoping for betting. He got totally cheated.
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Admittedly, she hadn't thought through the logistics, so it briefly catches her off guard when he takes a seat on the floor. The arrangement is faintly absurd — but, somehow, less absurd than his recent toe performance. So she settles into it with a touch more aplomb than she otherwise might have managed.
Jasnah extends her hand. She wants the deck. She wants the authority of the deal.
"If I win two out of five hands," she proposes, cool and precise, "you read me a chapter from a book of my choosing."
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He raises an eyebrow at her chosen 'prize', openly skeptical; firstly, it's something he'd be willing to do anyway, and secondly, it's something that he can't really imagine why she'd want. Sure, he's read plenty a book aloud to Alicia, and he fancies himself a damn good narrator, but he highly doubts his narration style will appeal to Jasnah. He does the voices.
"You can ask for something better than that, you know," he says. Then again, maybe she just wants to revel in the oddity of watching a man read. Like a dog playing poker. "—And you don't have much faith in yourself. It's usually best two out of three."
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Perhaps that's why she cannot summon a wager more elaborate than this: a familiar, steady voice easing her into an afternoon doze with lines and lines and lines of...let's be honest, Vorin determinism. Surely delivered dutifully and without embellishment.
Still, his criticism pricks. Just enough to raise a thin tendril of self-consciousness. Rather than defend the wager itself, she pivots. She chooses instead to dismantle what she believes is the weaker flank of his argument.
"Out of three?" Her nose wrinkles, dismissive. "No. It's either out of five or out of ten."
Holy numbers again, probably. Let's all be grateful they're not on Scadrial where everything would be in sixteens.
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He continues painstakingly shuffling the cards, this time passing them from hand to hand. Just making sure they're really, truly, super shuffled! It has nothing to do with payback for her making him wait in the mess deck, nope.
"This is a Lumièran game with Lumièran cards," he points out, "and I thought you enjoyed learning about other cultures."
With a pointedly innocent smile: "Best two out of three. And if I win, you'll agree to call for me before you get up again." A far more pragmatic wager than hers.
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Affectionately, of course. Unfortunately, these sorts of instincts and emotions are rarely straightforward.
"Agreed," she says, the word ground out with resolve. Then, without releasing him: "But I deal."
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As usual, there's nothing here that she wants that wouldn't have been freely given if she'd just expressed a desire for it. But this is a card game, not a therapy session, so he lets it pass, handing her the deck.
As she deals: "I have to admit, I expected you to bet for something more academic." A shrug. "A treatise on gestral culture, or a live demonstration of my..." He waffles a bit before landing on, "Regenerative qualities."
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Her visible card is a four; the hidden one, a six. She notes both, then deliberately waits for his verdict first, following the order he laid out back on the ship.
In the interim, she counters: "I am absolutely not about to obligate you into such a demonstration via a card game."
Apparently that is a bridge too far. Or perhaps she's simply developed a conditioned aversion to pressing the subject. She keeps discovering new and inventive ways to unsettle him when she does, and even Jasnah can recognize a flawed experimental variable when it repeats itself.
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"It's not..." That big of a deal, honestly. Except the reason that she even thinks that is because he'd made it into a big deal; he hems and haws for a moment, contemplating what to say. "I don't mind that you have questions."
And he doesn't! If he can entertain and delight with his immortality, then good. It's just— "I reacted poorly before, because..." He taps his cards a few times, then says, "I had an unpleasant experience, once. My companions saw my immortality firsthand, and I was abducted and interrogated."
He conveniently leaves out the part where he escaped with a little murder.
"But it isn't fair to judge you on someone else's merits." A beat, then he looks down at his cards again. "I'll hit."
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(But something bone-deep and quietly lovely settles in her chest at the simple fact of being told I don't mind that you have questions.)
She chews her bottom lip, thinking. Then, reaching to the small pile of cards on the divan, she deals him a third card. A third for herself as well.
Jasnah is self-aware enough to recognize how easily she can sound like an interrogator. Self-aware enough to note how thin the semantic line is between between abduction and being stranded in a strange world, dependent on a single, familiar person. Silently, she resolves to do better. Be better. It's the kind of quiet promise Ivory would have approved of. Meet your potential, he would say.
"—Is there," she begins, carefully, "any manner of demonstrating your regenerative qualities that you find...acceptable?"
No. Even that is the wrong word. Acceptable? Surely it still hurts. She frowns, recalibrates.
"Is there a way you prefer to demonstrate it?"
There. Better.
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It does still hurt, yeah, but he likes to think he's gained a sort of tolerance to it. Or maybe he's just gotten good enough at mentally leaving his body that nearly anything has become endurable. He takes a look at his cards—the King of Spades, a 3, a 4—and sets them back down.
"I'll stand."
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"Same," Jasnah says as she flips her three cards against her knee for him to see: a six, a four, a ten. Twenty, total. She's quite chuffed with this one.
Carefully, approaching her curiosity from a more careful angle: "Would you regrow a lost limb whole-cloth or would you require the original limb in order to heal it...back together? So to speak."
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As he reshuffles the cards, he answers, "That... depends. I have some measure of control over it." Not enough to stop it from happening completely. Staying alive isn't a choice, but the body in which he does that is, hence the unhealed scar. "If a limb were to, say, disintegrate entirely, I would regrow it."
This time, he holds the deck back out to her. Go ahead, deal. "But if it's still around, I prefer to bring the parts together. Feels less weird that way."
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But his measure of control is interesting. She nods along to his description, watching as he generously shuffles for her. Card shuffling would be a masculine art, to be sure. When he finishes, she takes the deck with a murmured word of gratitude. Loud enough to b heard; not so loud as to detour their conversation.
"—Can you be tattooed? Is that what you mean by having some measure of control over it?"
A serious, legitimate, academic inquiry. She knows of a man whose nascent Knight Radiant abilities foiled every attempt to set ink in skin. It would just wipe away, apparently. Jasnah had not been able to secure a primary source on this anecdote, of course, on account of her thinking Kaladin Stormblessed is a self-righteous annoyance and she can't be bothered to ask him herself.
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He wouldn't actually mind a tattoo or two, honestly, but it's never really been an option. The last thing he wants is a sentient paintbrush coming at him with a needle. Sure, he could heal any artwork mistakes—which they'd probably make—but the trauma would last forever.
Tapping the floor: "Deal me in."
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congrats on receiving my 1,000th comment in this post
throwing a party!!
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first work tag of the new year...
ditto. 🥂
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