Lunch with her mother and uncle rolls into discussions on troop allocations rolls into someone finally convincing her to go see the surgeon and have a bath and change out of those simple Thaylen clothes. Shallan, probably. Who made it back in better shape than Jasnah did. The two have a long, strained conversation deep into the night about one particular lie the younger woman once told and how it can be leveraged now to Jasnah's benefit.
The third moon rises and she's still awake — transferring notes from one journal into a selection of different, more topics-based journals. But, storms, she's tired. An idle chat with Ivory makes her feel a little better. And...yes, in the busy mix of it all she forgets Verso entirely.
Almost entirely. When something pulls in her side like a dull ache, she thinks of him. When her loose hair tickles the back of her neck because it's not yet in a tight braid, she thinks of him. When Ivory asks a pointed question about the days he missed in Thaylen City, she thinks of him. But not once does she act on these thoughts.
— It's a full day and night and day before she feels sufficiently caught up and reestablished in the currency of her work (fighting against flashbacks to how behind-the-times she'd felt the last time she'd gone missing, albeit for so much longer) to even think about what she misses. Shelving a book, she glances over at her desk and...
Hmm.
It's late, but a runner boy is dispatched to find the Wit. Verso. Wherever he is in the tower, that boy will track him down and inform him that if he would just follow him, the Queen would like to talk. "The Alethi one," the boy adds. In case there's any confusion.
Verso expects her to call on him later that day. In the evening, at the very least. She'd suggested as much, hadn't she? He's up late into the night waiting on her—although he'd be up regardless—and by the end of it he feels like a teenager who's been stood up by their date.
He used to be so gifted at solitude, but he'd grown accustomed to having constant company in the past weeks; it makes the return to loneliness that much harder. As he lies on his too-soft bed, wondering again if he'll sink into it like a stone in water, he longs for Alicia and Clea's companionship. They're better off without him, but the rationality of that thought doesn't do anything to alleviate the ache. As much as he hates to admit it, he wasn't built to be alone.
That's where he is when Jasnah's runner finds him. He has to request a moment to fix his appearance given that he's spent the better part of the day moping in bed, but afterwards he does as requested, following him to wherever Jasnah might be. Despite the aforementioned combination moping-missing he's been doing, he does his best to appear at least in middling spirits.
The boy brings Verso to a small interior room on what must be the Kholin floor — at least, it's obvious if he's managed to match that particular shade of blue on the banners to her family. Otherwise, maybe it seems like any other floor.
The room however is undoubtedly hers. Shelves that line the walls are full to bursting with books and piles of papers. More of both seem to spill onto a wide desk with just enough space available to write — lit by a goblet of brightly infused diamonds. More gemstones sit in braziers on the walls but they're a sad stand-in for natural light (from a moon or the sun) considering there are no windows. Even the ventilation shafts high to the ceiling are mostly shuttered — so the room is just a little on the stuffy side. There's a hearth but instead of a fire it's got a little heating fabrial.
Jasnah sits at her desk. But when Verso arrives, she stands — almost smoothly. She does use the desk's edge to support those last few inches of momentum. Although her hair is down and loose, the rest of her looks much more true to form: deep purple havah; buttoned sleeve; gold bracelets and earrings. Queen, again.
She rounds the table and gestures him inside — coolly thanking the runner boy before sending him off with a garnet mark for a tip.
And because she doesn't know how to say I finally realized I missed you, she opts instead for: "I had Shallan draw up some portraits based on what I could remember about the attacker's appearance. I'd like you to have a look — and maybe sit with her too. Describe what you might have seen."
She looks nice, although he doesn't say so. Somehow, the current in the air doesn't feel right to. Instead, he just says, "Oh. All right."
The current in the air also doesn't feel right to approach her any further right now, so he glances at the bookshelves instead, running a finger down the spine of what looks to be a particularly dense and boring account of history.
With a shrug: "You could have just given me some paints, you know."
She pauses with her fingers on the portrait pages. It's not surprise, really. More like that old habitual curiosity wiggling its way into her reaction. And, oh, okay. Maybe a little bit of surprise. But only because (again) it's unusual for her to meet a man who paints. But it was clumsy of her to have forgotten the cardbacks and the royals.
— So she closes the distance between them and holds out a couple pages each with a few different treatments. Based on the written description Jasnah had tried to set to paper as soon as she could sit at the end-table after she'd regained consciousness. Shallan's work is impeccable. Whether or not the description is accurate is more Jasnah's responsibility, but the artist had nevertheless breathed such tender life into what amounts to little more than a mugshot.
"How about charcoal?"
These portraits are in charcoal and — doubling back to her desk after handing them off — she returns with a little wooden box with bits of charcoal wrapped in cloth.
"These are good," he says appreciatively. Although his heart lies with the performing arts rather than the visual, he's certainly studied enough in the latter to know when someone has talent. And so quick, too. Jasnah must have gotten to work on getting these done soon after returning to Urithiru. Maybe that's what she was doing while he was waiting alone in his room for her to need him.
"But his shoulders are— and his nose was a little more—" Verso lowers the papers, reaching for a piece of charcoal. "Can I?"
A slow, knowing nod. If she feels some instinctive kick to correct him and say instead that these are beyond good then she suppresses it well. But Jasnah is pleased with Shallan's growth — and while the girl doesn't want to be her ward any longer, she can't help but feel a little responsible for her professional development all the same.
The only concession she'll make is in carefully displacing criticism off Shallan and onto herself: "My memories of what happened and how he appeared are — loose. At best. She might have done better with a better description."
Nevertheless, she holds the box ajar for Verso and lets him pick whatever piece pleases him. Storms, she even invites him — with a gesture — to sit at the desk if he'd like a work surface.
He doesn't sit at the desk. He places the papers down and leans over it instead, not so presumptuous as to make himself at home here. The next few minutes are filled with quiet, focused scribbling. Filling in details Jasnah didn't mention to Shallan, making slight edits. The aforementioned nose and shoulders, as well as a darkening of his brows, a faint wrinkle between them.
Finally: "There." He steps back, leaving the papers on the desk as he drops the charcoal back in the box.
His question draws a frown. Before now — while he'd been amending Shallan's work, a liberty she didn't even think twice of affording him over another artists work incidentally — Jasnah had been standing stiff and solemn off to the side of her study. Safehand covered and loose at her hip; freehand braced gently against her side.
Unfortunately, that was all. The breadth of the excuse she'd managed to drum up to see him again — whether or not she admits it to herself or not — and she's not in the business of making up something else just to force him to linger. Presumably, he's got his own evening to which he'd like to return. Maybe she shouldn't have drawn him out so late. It's just — it's only —
She knew he wouldn't have been sleeping. Just as she wasn't.
Jasnah picks up the updated portrait. Nodding in silence as she takes in the changes.
"That's all," she admits — teeth scraping her bottom lip; attention held on the drawing. Something screams in the back of her throat for her to say something, anything. Tell him to stay. Ask him how he finds his bed. Inform him that as the Queen's Wit, she has certain expectations. It all kinda turns to mush in her mouth.
Best she can manage, waving the paper lightly, is a thin: "Good work."
There. Positive feedback was something he'd wanted, right? Well. She gives it. Sorta.
Jasnah watches him. Unperturbed by the silence — its width, its depth, its freeze-frame nature as they seem to stand there a beat too long. Staring. Or, at any rate, she's staring.
He bids her good night and she doesn't bother picking it apart. Nights clearly aren't easy for either of them.
Eventually — when she's let the silence stretch a little too long herself — she starts: "Are you...?"
Hm. Her lips press into a tight line and she lets the portrait flutter back onto the desk.
Ah. Inwardly, Verso breathes a sigh of relief when Jasnah speaks again. He wouldn't have had it in himself to force this; if she'd said nothing more than good night in return, he would have turned around and walked back to his room in the dark of night.
"Not sure I ever settled in the first time around," he admits, although it's glib. He doesn't confess that he'd spent the whole night tossing and turning until he threw his pillow on the floor and slept there instead. "You?"
She gestures briefly to the desk. Papers piling up. Notebooks, opened to various pages. No less than three (3!) spanreeds blinking with little cries for attention. Rank and title come with privilege, no doubt about it. But there's also no doubt that Jasnah is a working royal.
"As if I never left."
Plus or minus a few nrw vulnerabilities. And that includes more than her injury.
It's astounding, really, how this can feel so awkward and stilted after he'd so readily confessed his most secret feelings to her in the dark, on Jochi's floor. He grasps for words before finally settling on:
Context is king. And until today, they've been contextless. Someone else's space. Even in Kharbranth. But now Jasnah had a hundred little advantages to fall back upon.
Still. There's something nonetheless human in how she snorts a dry, aggravated chuckle.
"What mother?" She levels Verso with a cutting look. "Oh. You must mean my...what did you say? Younger sister. What tomfoolery."
Well, there's some context. It's been days, Jasnah! Move on!!!
"I just said that to be nice," he defends. Actually, he'd said it in the hopes that it would make her mother like him, but that's a potayto-potahto situation. Regardless, it had just been meant as a polite compliment, that's all. The little old ladies at the Dessendre soirees used to go crazy for that.
With no understanding of why Jasnah might have actually found the comment displeasing, he says, "Obviously, you're the more youthful between you two."
Somehow, his attempt at tidying up his mess just smears more mess — at least that's true if her expression is anything to by. Her lip curls. What does it matter? Why is so much fuss made about appearances? Because that's what the compliment was at its heart. A wry, complicit joke about what's valuable about a woman. And maybe she'd thought better of him.
She may look like her mother but, storms, she's got her father's temper.
Another part of Jasnah reminds her that it's foolish to get so heated. If anything, such flippant superficial commentary cleaves almost too well to the role of the Wit. Hoid would tease her and scold her for letting it get under her skin. For letting him get under her skin.
So. A short, stabilizing breath.
"You ought to be cautious around Navani." She decides to skin this mink from a different direction. "She's got teeth."
"I would assume so," he says, "given that she's your mother."
Jasnah had to have inherited those teeth from somewhere.
But clearly, he's made another misstep. Merde, sometimes it feels as if it's one step forward and two steps backward with Jasnah. An unpleasant waltz that she refuses to let him lead.
He's not proud of the passive-aggression that slips into his voice when he asks, "Would you have preferred I stayed seen and not heard?" Seeing as she didn't even want to introduce him, that she'd had to be prompted.
Paradox that she is, Jasnah finds the implication about her own bite preferable to all this faff and circumstance around being nice but telling a stately woman whose earned her greys some lie about looking as though she could be her daughter's younger sister. As she'd stated aloud: tomfoolery.
But the heat gets into her blood. Ultimately, her little meditative breath counts for little and less. And she can feel herself winding up for an argument. Good. Yes. She could use one of those. Her jaw works a moment, thinking through her response.
"False equivalency — assuming that because I take issue to the one statement that I would have taken issue with any statement."
Ooh, that pisses him off so bad. Unlike Jasnah, though, it's not in his nature to come out teeth and claws bared. This prodromal state before an impending argument doesn't feel good. It feels like shit.
"Another academic discussion," he mutters. "Riveting."
His muttering sticks in her craw. The way he circles the fight — offering commentary but little else — leaves behind a dissatisfied hollowness. She'd like something to tear into. Or else to navigate.
She chews the side of her tongue. So be it. A fight with a willing partner is rousing. Energizing. But such a passive response—? Jasnah returns to her desk, taking a stiff seat on a high-backed chair.
"Academic is what I am, Dessendre." She counters. "It can't be helped. But I won't keep you up for discussions you've no interest in."
He doesn't believe that academic is what she is. He believes it's a defense mechanism, a way for her to distance herself. She doesn't have to bare any parts of herself that she doesn't want to if all she does is quote one of the books on these shelves. When she argues against emotion from a purely intellectual standpoint, she can always position herself as higher, more evolved.
Verso could push, if he really wanted to. Make another comment to get her dander up all over again. The truth is, though, he's less angry than he is disappointed—not in her, exactly, but in the situation. Not a moment since they've been back has gone the way he'd expected it to. Certainly not the way he wanted it to. He's starting to wonder if everything that happened on the ship and in Thaylen City was just a fluke.
"Good night," he says softly, and this time he really does leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Not only can she position herself as higher — more evolved — but she can almost always contort herself into believing she's had some manner of last word. It helps the anxiety subside. Ebb away. Reduce by degrees with each new aggressive line she scores into parchment. Tonight, even without stormlight to abuse, she's getting no sleep. She crams work and study and tactics into every hollow, ringing corner of her mind, crowding out anything soft or unguarded. There's no room left where she might feel his absence. That, at least, is the theory.
Meanwhile.
When Verso returns to his own quarters, there's a surprise waiting for him.
Before he even reaches the door, he can hear it: his piano being played. Not tentatively. Not poorly. But with a breezy, impish confidence — a jaunty, wandering melody that suggests the player has already tested the acoustics, adjusted the bench, and decided the instrument meets with approval.
Inside, sprawled at the keys as if the room were a borrowed jacket he'd grown fond of, sits a lanky Alethi man. Long legs crossed at the ankle, posture terrible, fingers nimble. He doesn't stop when Verso enters. If anything, he embellishes — tossing in a flourish that feels pointedly unnecessary, like a bow performed without ever standing up.
The room bears subtle evidence of occupation. A book opened face-down. The man at the piano plays on, humming softly under his breath, utterly at ease in a space that is not his — or perhaps convinced, by sheer confidence alone, that it is. Verso wasn't gone that long. Whoever it is, he'd likely been waiting for the chance.
Only after several beats does he glance over his shoulder, smile crooked and unapologetic, and continue playing anyway.
Although he isn't afraid of the stranger in his room—he has no reason to be, when there's no permanent harm that could ever come to him—Verso had been looking forward to marinating in his negative emotions in private, so the appearance of a new challenger is unpleasant. The sight of foreign hands all over his piano is even more unpleasant.
—Although he'll admit the music sounds nice. It's been a long time since he got to listen to anyone else play the piano artfully. Strange. Hadn't Jasnah said they didn't have pianos on Roshar?
He stands there in the doorway, frowning back at that irritatingly charming grin. There's nothing here that says 'danger'. Maybe 'escaped mental patient', but not 'danger'. "It's impolite to play another man's instrument," he says, raising his voice over the sound of piano keys being pressed.
If anything, he leans into it — lets the phrase resolve cleanly, fingers lifting with deliberate restraint before drifting straight back into the melody, softer now, like he's decided to make room for conversation. He glances back at Verso over his shoulder, smile still in place, irritatingly pleased with itself.
"Ah," he says, lightly, "see, that's where we differ. You think it's impolite. I think it's a compliment. I only touch instruments that deserve it." A pause, just long enough to let that land. "People too, but that's a longer conversation."
Hoid lets the music taper off this time — not a full stop, just a soft wandering cadence that dissolves into silence. His fingers linger on the keys a second longer than necessary, like they're reluctant to leave. He finally turns on the bench, one leg hooked over the other, one hand still resting on the keys as though they might wander back into a tune at any moment.
"Speaking of people, most who belong somewhere have a certain — rhythm to them. They move in time with the place. Even when they're unhappy about it. And that's especially true here."
Edited (forgot to actually add a sentence for him to STOP playing.) 2026-01-29 01:59 (UTC)
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Lunch with her mother and uncle rolls into discussions on troop allocations rolls into someone finally convincing her to go see the surgeon and have a bath and change out of those simple Thaylen clothes. Shallan, probably. Who made it back in better shape than Jasnah did. The two have a long, strained conversation deep into the night about one particular lie the younger woman once told and how it can be leveraged now to Jasnah's benefit.
The third moon rises and she's still awake — transferring notes from one journal into a selection of different, more topics-based journals. But, storms, she's tired. An idle chat with Ivory makes her feel a little better. And...yes, in the busy mix of it all she forgets Verso entirely.
Almost entirely. When something pulls in her side like a dull ache, she thinks of him. When her loose hair tickles the back of her neck because it's not yet in a tight braid, she thinks of him. When Ivory asks a pointed question about the days he missed in Thaylen City, she thinks of him. But not once does she act on these thoughts.
— It's a full day and night and day before she feels sufficiently caught up and reestablished in the currency of her work (fighting against flashbacks to how behind-the-times she'd felt the last time she'd gone missing, albeit for so much longer) to even think about what she misses. Shelving a book, she glances over at her desk and...
Hmm.
It's late, but a runner boy is dispatched to find the Wit. Verso. Wherever he is in the tower, that boy will track him down and inform him that if he would just follow him, the Queen would like to talk. "The Alethi one," the boy adds. In case there's any confusion.
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He used to be so gifted at solitude, but he'd grown accustomed to having constant company in the past weeks; it makes the return to loneliness that much harder. As he lies on his too-soft bed, wondering again if he'll sink into it like a stone in water, he longs for Alicia and Clea's companionship. They're better off without him, but the rationality of that thought doesn't do anything to alleviate the ache. As much as he hates to admit it, he wasn't built to be alone.
That's where he is when Jasnah's runner finds him. He has to request a moment to fix his appearance given that he's spent the better part of the day moping in bed, but afterwards he does as requested, following him to wherever Jasnah might be. Despite the aforementioned combination moping-missing he's been doing, he does his best to appear at least in middling spirits.
"Hey," he says by way of greeting. "What's up?"
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The boy brings Verso to a small interior room on what must be the Kholin floor — at least, it's obvious if he's managed to match that particular shade of blue on the banners to her family. Otherwise, maybe it seems like any other floor.
The room however is undoubtedly hers. Shelves that line the walls are full to bursting with books and piles of papers. More of both seem to spill onto a wide desk with just enough space available to write — lit by a goblet of brightly infused diamonds. More gemstones sit in braziers on the walls but they're a sad stand-in for natural light (from a moon or the sun) considering there are no windows. Even the ventilation shafts high to the ceiling are mostly shuttered — so the room is just a little on the stuffy side. There's a hearth but instead of a fire it's got a little heating fabrial.
Jasnah sits at her desk. But when Verso arrives, she stands — almost smoothly. She does use the desk's edge to support those last few inches of momentum. Although her hair is down and loose, the rest of her looks much more true to form: deep purple havah; buttoned sleeve; gold bracelets and earrings. Queen, again.
She rounds the table and gestures him inside — coolly thanking the runner boy before sending him off with a garnet mark for a tip.
And because she doesn't know how to say I finally realized I missed you, she opts instead for: "I had Shallan draw up some portraits based on what I could remember about the attacker's appearance. I'd like you to have a look — and maybe sit with her too. Describe what you might have seen."
So so so businesslike.
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The current in the air also doesn't feel right to approach her any further right now, so he glances at the bookshelves instead, running a finger down the spine of what looks to be a particularly dense and boring account of history.
With a shrug: "You could have just given me some paints, you know."
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She pauses with her fingers on the portrait pages. It's not surprise, really. More like that old habitual curiosity wiggling its way into her reaction. And, oh, okay. Maybe a little bit of surprise. But only because (again) it's unusual for her to meet a man who paints. But it was clumsy of her to have forgotten the cardbacks and the royals.
— So she closes the distance between them and holds out a couple pages each with a few different treatments. Based on the written description Jasnah had tried to set to paper as soon as she could sit at the end-table after she'd regained consciousness. Shallan's work is impeccable. Whether or not the description is accurate is more Jasnah's responsibility, but the artist had nevertheless breathed such tender life into what amounts to little more than a mugshot.
"How about charcoal?"
These portraits are in charcoal and — doubling back to her desk after handing them off — she returns with a little wooden box with bits of charcoal wrapped in cloth.
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"But his shoulders are— and his nose was a little more—" Verso lowers the papers, reaching for a piece of charcoal. "Can I?"
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The only concession she'll make is in carefully displacing criticism off Shallan and onto herself: "My memories of what happened and how he appeared are — loose. At best. She might have done better with a better description."
Nevertheless, she holds the box ajar for Verso and lets him pick whatever piece pleases him. Storms, she even invites him — with a gesture — to sit at the desk if he'd like a work surface.
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Finally: "There." He steps back, leaving the papers on the desk as he drops the charcoal back in the box.
"—Was that all?"
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His question draws a frown. Before now — while he'd been amending Shallan's work, a liberty she didn't even think twice of affording him over another artists work incidentally — Jasnah had been standing stiff and solemn off to the side of her study. Safehand covered and loose at her hip; freehand braced gently against her side.
Unfortunately, that was all. The breadth of the excuse she'd managed to drum up to see him again — whether or not she admits it to herself or not — and she's not in the business of making up something else just to force him to linger. Presumably, he's got his own evening to which he'd like to return. Maybe she shouldn't have drawn him out so late. It's just — it's only —
She knew he wouldn't have been sleeping. Just as she wasn't.
Jasnah picks up the updated portrait. Nodding in silence as she takes in the changes.
"That's all," she admits — teeth scraping her bottom lip; attention held on the drawing. Something screams in the back of her throat for her to say something, anything. Tell him to stay. Ask him how he finds his bed. Inform him that as the Queen's Wit, she has certain expectations. It all kinda turns to mush in her mouth.
Best she can manage, waving the paper lightly, is a thin: "Good work."
There. Positive feedback was something he'd wanted, right? Well. She gives it. Sorta.
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Silence stretches out.
"...Well, good night," he says, not going.
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He bids her good night and she doesn't bother picking it apart. Nights clearly aren't easy for either of them.
Eventually — when she's let the silence stretch a little too long herself — she starts: "Are you...?"
Hm. Her lips press into a tight line and she lets the portrait flutter back onto the desk.
"Have you settled back into the tower?"
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"Not sure I ever settled in the first time around," he admits, although it's glib. He doesn't confess that he'd spent the whole night tossing and turning until he threw his pillow on the floor and slept there instead. "You?"
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She gestures briefly to the desk. Papers piling up. Notebooks, opened to various pages. No less than three (3!) spanreeds blinking with little cries for attention. Rank and title come with privilege, no doubt about it. But there's also no doubt that Jasnah is a working royal.
"As if I never left."
Plus or minus a few nrw vulnerabilities. And that includes more than her injury.
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It's astounding, really, how this can feel so awkward and stilted after he'd so readily confessed his most secret feelings to her in the dark, on Jochi's floor. He grasps for words before finally settling on:
"—You resemble your mother."
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Still. There's something nonetheless human in how she snorts a dry, aggravated chuckle.
"What mother?" She levels Verso with a cutting look. "Oh. You must mean my...what did you say? Younger sister. What tomfoolery."
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"I just said that to be nice," he defends. Actually, he'd said it in the hopes that it would make her mother like him, but that's a potayto-potahto situation. Regardless, it had just been meant as a polite compliment, that's all. The little old ladies at the Dessendre soirees used to go crazy for that.
With no understanding of why Jasnah might have actually found the comment displeasing, he says, "Obviously, you're the more youthful between you two."
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She may look like her mother but, storms, she's got her father's temper.
Another part of Jasnah reminds her that it's foolish to get so heated. If anything, such flippant superficial commentary cleaves almost too well to the role of the Wit. Hoid would tease her and scold her for letting it get under her skin. For letting him get under her skin.
So. A short, stabilizing breath.
"You ought to be cautious around Navani." She decides to skin this mink from a different direction. "She's got teeth."
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Jasnah had to have inherited those teeth from somewhere.
But clearly, he's made another misstep. Merde, sometimes it feels as if it's one step forward and two steps backward with Jasnah. An unpleasant waltz that she refuses to let him lead.
He's not proud of the passive-aggression that slips into his voice when he asks, "Would you have preferred I stayed seen and not heard?" Seeing as she didn't even want to introduce him, that she'd had to be prompted.
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But the heat gets into her blood. Ultimately, her little meditative breath counts for little and less. And she can feel herself winding up for an argument. Good. Yes. She could use one of those. Her jaw works a moment, thinking through her response.
"False equivalency — assuming that because I take issue to the one statement that I would have taken issue with any statement."
Can't even argue in a personal manner.
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"Another academic discussion," he mutters. "Riveting."
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She chews the side of her tongue. So be it. A fight with a willing partner is rousing. Energizing. But such a passive response—? Jasnah returns to her desk, taking a stiff seat on a high-backed chair.
"Academic is what I am, Dessendre." She counters. "It can't be helped. But I won't keep you up for discussions you've no interest in."
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Verso could push, if he really wanted to. Make another comment to get her dander up all over again. The truth is, though, he's less angry than he is disappointed—not in her, exactly, but in the situation. Not a moment since they've been back has gone the way he'd expected it to. Certainly not the way he wanted it to. He's starting to wonder if everything that happened on the ship and in Thaylen City was just a fluke.
"Good night," he says softly, and this time he really does leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
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Meanwhile.
When Verso returns to his own quarters, there's a surprise waiting for him.
Before he even reaches the door, he can hear it: his piano being played. Not tentatively. Not poorly. But with a breezy, impish confidence — a jaunty, wandering melody that suggests the player has already tested the acoustics, adjusted the bench, and decided the instrument meets with approval.
Inside, sprawled at the keys as if the room were a borrowed jacket he'd grown fond of, sits a lanky Alethi man. Long legs crossed at the ankle, posture terrible, fingers nimble. He doesn't stop when Verso enters. If anything, he embellishes — tossing in a flourish that feels pointedly unnecessary, like a bow performed without ever standing up.
The room bears subtle evidence of occupation. A book opened face-down. The man at the piano plays on, humming softly under his breath, utterly at ease in a space that is not his — or perhaps convinced, by sheer confidence alone, that it is. Verso wasn't gone that long. Whoever it is, he'd likely been waiting for the chance.
Only after several beats does he glance over his shoulder, smile crooked and unapologetic, and continue playing anyway.
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—Although he'll admit the music sounds nice. It's been a long time since he got to listen to anyone else play the piano artfully. Strange. Hadn't Jasnah said they didn't have pianos on Roshar?
He stands there in the doorway, frowning back at that irritatingly charming grin. There's nothing here that says 'danger'. Maybe 'escaped mental patient', but not 'danger'. "It's impolite to play another man's instrument," he says, raising his voice over the sound of piano keys being pressed.
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If anything, he leans into it — lets the phrase resolve cleanly, fingers lifting with deliberate restraint before drifting straight back into the melody, softer now, like he's decided to make room for conversation. He glances back at Verso over his shoulder, smile still in place, irritatingly pleased with itself.
"Ah," he says, lightly, "see, that's where we differ. You think it's impolite. I think it's a compliment. I only touch instruments that deserve it." A pause, just long enough to let that land. "People too, but that's a longer conversation."
Hoid lets the music taper off this time — not a full stop, just a soft wandering cadence that dissolves into silence. His fingers linger on the keys a second longer than necessary, like they're reluctant to leave. He finally turns on the bench, one leg hooked over the other, one hand still resting on the keys as though they might wander back into a tune at any moment.
"Speaking of people, most who belong somewhere have a certain — rhythm to them. They move in time with the place. Even when they're unhappy about it. And that's especially true here."
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