Verso can tell she only sleeps for a small amount of time by the change in her breathing, but he doesn't acknowledge her waking before the sun rises. Once it does, he follows Jochi out and down the stairs, conversing pleasantly with him—mostly about Jasnah, a little bit about pastries—before returning yet again with breakfast. A brioche this time, something he's very familiar with.
"Tired of pastries yet?" he asks as he sets a slice wrapped in paper down on the end table, although it's a rhetorical question. Of course she is. Even he is by now, and he went nearly 7 decades without good food.
So, instead of waiting on a response, he follows up with, "Where do you want to go today?" On the promised walk.
In the brief stretch of morning solitude — the time Verso spends downstairs — Jasnah allows herself a few small liberties. She attends to minor grooming: a change of clothes, careful and unhurried; washing her face. And, most importantly, she draws the end-table drawer a little farther open to check on Ivory's condition.
Still unresponsive, if unconscious is even the right word for a being composed entirely of thought. But he can't be entirely gone given the once-again thin sip of stormlight she manages to draw from the spheres tucked beside him brings a welcome jolt. If she had to guess, whatever she's taken in thus far has shaved hours — perhaps even days — off what would otherwise be a far slower recovery.
When Verso returns upstairs, she's seated upright at the end table, loose hair spilling over her freshly changed blouse. The spanreed waits in front of her. After all, she'd resolved to return to correspondence in the morning. She clicks her tongue and nudges the pen and its paper aside when he sets down the brioche. The plate promptly claims an outsized portion of the table's limited space.
She is so, so tired of pastries. But it feels churlish to say as much. Food is food, and she does understand how precarious that can be. After months stranded in Shadesmar, where the only edible things had been the contents of strange tin cans ferried along absurd, off-world trade routes. Still. Storms, what she wouldn't give for a spiced curry.
Dutiful — to Jochi's craft, if not her own appetite — she tears into the brioche.
"You tell me," she says, mild but pointed. "Given how often you've been out exploring in the evenings, you may actually be more familiar with the city than I am."
He wouldn't say 'exploring'. More aimlessly wandering and trying to get some air, but that sounds a lot less interesting and a bit more pathetic than exploring, so— sure. Verso doesn't argue with her on that point.
Perching on the far edge of the divan, trying not to take up too much of the room she needs to stretch out, he says, "You know, I used to be something of a professional tour guide."
Ha. It's barely sarcastic. He was a guide and a babysitter, and for very little return on investment.
"We could go looking for a place that doesn't serve pastries for lunch."
One barely-restrained grumble of agreement. Yes, please. Jasnah nods and voices the thing she previously thought but didn't say aloud: "I'd kill for a curry."
A bit dramatic, sure. But her stomach even rumbles at the thought. She sniffs and tries to silence it with a mouthful of brioche. Chewing, thinking, swallowing. It doesn't quite satisfy. Jochi's baking is plenty good, and it's miles better than porridge made from tasteless soulcast grain, but she misses meat skewers and peppered chicken and roasted vegetables and curries hot enough to make you sweat. Not that she expects she'll be served the latter in Thaylen City. But as she chews another bite, she watches Verso and wonders — if they found a good curry house — he'd swap dishes with her.
"...What do you like?" She asks, a little awkward about it until she hones her quest with a follow-up. "To eat. Do you have a favourite dish?"
She braces herself. Will this be like asking a favourite colour all over again? Maybe she can get ahead of the discomfort by simply stating her curiosity like this.
It's a totally normal question, Jasnah, chill out. He doesn't so much as bat an eye at it—he would have asked the same, if he were in her position.
However, it's a bit of a difficult question to answer. What he likes to eat and what he actually eats are two different things; while he'd enjoyed fine dining in Lumière, there's not much in the way of sustenance on the Continent. After all, he's the only inhabitant of it who eats at all.
"I used to love coq au vin," he starts. God, it's been a long time since he had that one. "...But the Continent is mostly a lot of mushrooms."
Which he hated starting out, by the way. He's grown accustomed to them by necessity, but they still kind of suck, especially because he's an awful cook. Can't be good at everything.
Sheepishly: "I got poisoned a lot before I grew a tolerance to them."
Mushrooms? Weird. Jasnah hasn't tried many herself — rather challenging to cultivate much on a planet without decent soil to allow for fungus systems to thrive. Although some varietals have made their way to Alethi tables from Shinovar. Distant, foreign delicacies. And desperate bridge crews foraging fungi from the damp, dark chasms.
Her eyes narrow. But this time, it might be more with concern than disbelief.
"Even with your — curse?" She still uses the term he once introduced it by. Even if, to her, it hardly seems like one. "It doesn't deal with poisons?"
"—Well," he says, shrugging, "it doesn't deal with anything, exactly." Not while it's happening. Only in the aftermath. "Flattered as I am that you think so, I'm not invulnerable. I still die, it just... doesn't take."
For example, if she does use him as a human landing pad when they go flying, he'll still splat on the ground. He'll just get better.
"So, I still, uh"—there's no pretty way to describe vomiting yourself to death, huh—"felt the effects of poisonous mushrooms until I ate enough of them."
Cognitive Shadow — she thinks, not for the first time. Likely not for the last. Like the Heralds, but without the torture session on Braize. It isn't healing at all, really. How...
"...How awful." For him, that is. Dying, returning, dying, returning. Sympathy — rare and brief — lingers in her look.
"We'll find something much better than mushrooms," she resolves.
Honestly, he's a little surprised that she doesn't ask to see it. Scientifically, it must be interesting. Watching a person die and then restitch themselves from the cellular layer. He's never really been in a lucid enough state during those moments to pay attention. The adrenaline rush of dying kind of supersedes analytical thought.
"I've never had curry," he muses idly, like they weren't just discussing his Promethean existence. "What does it taste like?"
Jasnah is of two minds. First — yes, absolutely, she would love to see this anomaly in action. Second, however? She's utterly disinterested in watching death for its own sake. What she really wants — needs — is some organic threat to kill him so she can watch the aftermath without guilt. Shrug emoji!!!
"Never?" Oh, hmm. She sits back, thoughtful. "Vegetables and meat in a seasoned sauce. Sometimes spiced, sometimes sweet. The taste can vary — it's quite dependent on what's available in the kitchens."
Oh, it's been a long time since he had meat. The Continent is hardly overflowing with edible creatures—one might consider eating the Nevrons, but they're even more poisonous than the mushrooms, and they taste awful besides. Ugh, the leathery skin of a Bourgeon? He'll pass.
The rest, though... sweet, he can do. Spicy, less so.
He grimaces a little, sheepish. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for all the spices they put in men's food here." Please, he's as Caucasian as a person can be. "In Lumière, our primary spice was butter."
...Jasnah's expression splits with a grateful, eager smile. There is no reproach nor judgement for his spice tolerance — or lack thereof. In fact, she recognizes it for the opportunity it truly is: an ideal solution to the problem of worrying and fussing over finding a curry house only to be served something she doesn't actually want to eat. Under other circumstances, she might have insisted on a spiced curry — but now, here, like this? She'd do well not to draw too much attention.
"No," she answers — sharp and corrective, but no less pleased. Reaching out, she even dares to tap the back of her fingers against his arm.
"You'll swap with me, won't you?" The brioche? Entirely forgotten. Even the spanreed, which she'd been keeping a careful eye on even since he'd returned, stands ignored while she talks him through this admittedly very simple plot. "Wherever we go, whatever they serve, you and I should swap bowls."
Storms, she must be bored out of her skull if a little bit of restaurant table sleight of hand provides this much excitement.
It doesn't matter what she's asking. Jasnah could be proposing that he jump into an active volcano for her amusement, and he'd say yes, so long as she did so with her fingers brushing against his arm, that delighted lilt in her tone. Despite being perched on the edge of the seat so as not to take up her personal space, he leans involuntarily toward her, pulled inexorably toward her orbit.
Pragmatically, he can see this for what it is. Physical attraction, compounded by the intimacy of close quarters and how well they get along. An idle yearning spurred on by the safety of wanting what he can never have. There is no world in which a romance between them is anything but a chimerical daydream. All the same, it's difficult to look away when her eyes are bright with delight and her dark hair is tumbling over her shoulder.
"A cloak-and-dagger operation," he teases, corner of his mouth twitching up. "Very devious."
(Fun fact: Jasnah could never ask him to jump in active volcano because she doesn't know what a volcano is because Roshar lacks tectonics. But the point is taken.)
"Precisely," she responds.
Storms, but this woman loves a little scheme. It enough to suggest that if the weight of Alethkar — of all Roshar, perhaps — wasn't on her shoulders she might actually have something of a mischievous streak.
Cahoots. It's a fine word. Jasnah mouths it silently as she considers his offer — then, leaning forward, she takes his hand with her right one and gives it a firm shake. Confident and familiar. It lingers a little longer than might be considered customary, but soon after she retreats back to her carefully delineated portion of the divan.
Nodding, as if an important piece of business is concluded, she turns back to the desk. The spanreed.
"Before we go anywhere," she taps the table, "I have to make good on last night's agreement. It's time to let Urithiru know our plans."
...Oh, she was ready for this fight. Jasnah leans an elbow onto the table, cupping her chin in her palm. It's not the most composed posture to take, but she finds she does need a bit of extra help staying upright.
"It was a full week yesterday — but you had me wait until the morning, so now it's six days."
Verso pauses. Squints. Contemplates. "You mean— six days and..." It was the middle of the night, and although he's not certain of the exact time, he was awake for nearly all of it. It can't have been that long. "Sixteen hours."
A small, small nod. Jasnah's lips press together in a tight line — suppressing a smirk, maybe — as she watches him. One brow raised just a fraction. She'd wondered what tactic he'd take in reply to her obstinance, and negotiation comes as a slight pleasant surprise.
"Correct," she acknowledges. "The facts are on your side, this morning."
Ah. He's surprised, too, by her easy acceptance of his rebuttal. He'd thought it would be harder to get her to acquiesce. Sometimes, although he doesn't dare say it, it feels as if she disagrees solely for the sake of disagreeing.
"We should probably round up just to be safe, then."
— Acknowledging that he's correct isn't quite the same as agreeing to his timeline. But she's curious for how this might play out. Jasnah reaches out and twists the spanreed to transmit. A helpful, cutthroat little time pressure to the conversation.
"You'd quibble over a handful of hours?" She asks, quibbling over a handful of hours.
Of course she would. And of course he would—he's inherently competitive, and even that aside, it makes him feel like he has some modicum of control over what is actually a somewhat scary situation. Not for him; he'll be fine flying. Even just taking a walk with Jasnah feels like she's at risk of bleeding out all over again, though, and there's no way that flying wouldn't be ten times harder on her.
So: "You probably don't remember, but you were actually stabbed recently."
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"Tired of pastries yet?" he asks as he sets a slice wrapped in paper down on the end table, although it's a rhetorical question. Of course she is. Even he is by now, and he went nearly 7 decades without good food.
So, instead of waiting on a response, he follows up with, "Where do you want to go today?" On the promised walk.
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Still unresponsive, if unconscious is even the right word for a being composed entirely of thought. But he can't be entirely gone given the once-again thin sip of stormlight she manages to draw from the spheres tucked beside him brings a welcome jolt. If she had to guess, whatever she's taken in thus far has shaved hours — perhaps even days — off what would otherwise be a far slower recovery.
When Verso returns upstairs, she's seated upright at the end table, loose hair spilling over her freshly changed blouse. The spanreed waits in front of her. After all, she'd resolved to return to correspondence in the morning. She clicks her tongue and nudges the pen and its paper aside when he sets down the brioche. The plate promptly claims an outsized portion of the table's limited space.
She is so, so tired of pastries. But it feels churlish to say as much. Food is food, and she does understand how precarious that can be. After months stranded in Shadesmar, where the only edible things had been the contents of strange tin cans ferried along absurd, off-world trade routes. Still. Storms, what she wouldn't give for a spiced curry.
Dutiful — to Jochi's craft, if not her own appetite — she tears into the brioche.
"You tell me," she says, mild but pointed. "Given how often you've been out exploring in the evenings, you may actually be more familiar with the city than I am."
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Perching on the far edge of the divan, trying not to take up too much of the room she needs to stretch out, he says, "You know, I used to be something of a professional tour guide."
Ha. It's barely sarcastic. He was a guide and a babysitter, and for very little return on investment.
"We could go looking for a place that doesn't serve pastries for lunch."
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A bit dramatic, sure. But her stomach even rumbles at the thought. She sniffs and tries to silence it with a mouthful of brioche. Chewing, thinking, swallowing. It doesn't quite satisfy. Jochi's baking is plenty good, and it's miles better than porridge made from tasteless soulcast grain, but she misses meat skewers and peppered chicken and roasted vegetables and curries hot enough to make you sweat. Not that she expects she'll be served the latter in Thaylen City. But as she chews another bite, she watches Verso and wonders — if they found a good curry house — he'd swap dishes with her.
"...What do you like?" She asks, a little awkward about it until she hones her quest with a follow-up. "To eat. Do you have a favourite dish?"
She braces herself. Will this be like asking a favourite colour all over again? Maybe she can get ahead of the discomfort by simply stating her curiosity like this.
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However, it's a bit of a difficult question to answer. What he likes to eat and what he actually eats are two different things; while he'd enjoyed fine dining in Lumière, there's not much in the way of sustenance on the Continent. After all, he's the only inhabitant of it who eats at all.
"I used to love coq au vin," he starts. God, it's been a long time since he had that one. "...But the Continent is mostly a lot of mushrooms."
Which he hated starting out, by the way. He's grown accustomed to them by necessity, but they still kind of suck, especially because he's an awful cook. Can't be good at everything.
Sheepishly: "I got poisoned a lot before I grew a tolerance to them."
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Her eyes narrow. But this time, it might be more with concern than disbelief.
"Even with your — curse?" She still uses the term he once introduced it by. Even if, to her, it hardly seems like one. "It doesn't deal with poisons?"
Raw deal, really.
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For example, if she does use him as a human landing pad when they go flying, he'll still splat on the ground. He'll just get better.
"So, I still, uh"—there's no pretty way to describe vomiting yourself to death, huh—"felt the effects of poisonous mushrooms until I ate enough of them."
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"...How awful." For him, that is. Dying, returning, dying, returning. Sympathy — rare and brief — lingers in her look.
"We'll find something much better than mushrooms," she resolves.
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"I've never had curry," he muses idly, like they weren't just discussing his Promethean existence. "What does it taste like?"
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"Never?" Oh, hmm. She sits back, thoughtful. "Vegetables and meat in a seasoned sauce. Sometimes spiced, sometimes sweet. The taste can vary — it's quite dependent on what's available in the kitchens."
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The rest, though... sweet, he can do. Spicy, less so.
He grimaces a little, sheepish. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for all the spices they put in men's food here." Please, he's as Caucasian as a person can be. "In Lumière, our primary spice was butter."
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"That's — perfect, actually."
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"You'll swap with me, won't you?" The brioche? Entirely forgotten. Even the spanreed, which she'd been keeping a careful eye on even since he'd returned, stands ignored while she talks him through this admittedly very simple plot. "Wherever we go, whatever they serve, you and I should swap bowls."
Storms, she must be bored out of her skull if a little bit of restaurant table sleight of hand provides this much excitement.
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Pragmatically, he can see this for what it is. Physical attraction, compounded by the intimacy of close quarters and how well they get along. An idle yearning spurred on by the safety of wanting what he can never have. There is no world in which a romance between them is anything but a chimerical daydream. All the same, it's difficult to look away when her eyes are bright with delight and her dark hair is tumbling over her shoulder.
"A cloak-and-dagger operation," he teases, corner of his mouth twitching up. "Very devious."
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"Precisely," she responds.
Storms, but this woman loves a little scheme. It enough to suggest that if the weight of Alethkar — of all Roshar, perhaps — wasn't on her shoulders she might actually have something of a mischievous streak.
"You get what you want. I get what I want."
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Nodding, as if an important piece of business is concluded, she turns back to the desk. The spanreed.
"Before we go anywhere," she taps the table, "I have to make good on last night's agreement. It's time to let Urithiru know our plans."
So.
"Windrunners, in six days' time."
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"Are you actually trying to wriggle out of waiting a full week?"
As previously stated, she's impossible.
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"It was a full week yesterday — but you had me wait until the morning, so now it's six days."
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"Correct," she acknowledges. "The facts are on your side, this morning."
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"We should probably round up just to be safe, then."
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"You'd quibble over a handful of hours?" She asks, quibbling over a handful of hours.
Yep.
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Of course she would. And of course he would—he's inherently competitive, and even that aside, it makes him feel like he has some modicum of control over what is actually a somewhat scary situation. Not for him; he'll be fine flying. Even just taking a walk with Jasnah feels like she's at risk of bleeding out all over again, though, and there's no way that flying wouldn't be ten times harder on her.
So: "You probably don't remember, but you were actually stabbed recently."
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