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)
Ah, okay. Definitely an escaped mental patient. "Come on," he says, beckoning with a gesture. "I'm sure you have a carer somewhere who's worried sick about you."
"Oh, that's a good one," he says — and then actually chuckles and slaps his knee once for emphasis. "Fine delivery. Just enough concern to sell it. Keep that up and you'll do wonderfully as the Queen's Wit."
He rises from the bench at last — stretching like a cat. And although he steps closer, he stops well short of Verso's personal space, hands spread in a show of peace that somehow manages to look theatrical.
"You," he says with a mild rise in his brows, "are a half-beat off. Not a Rosharan rhythm at all, at all. Don't worry," he adds with a conciliatory rush. "I won't tell anyone. People get very strange about that sort of thing."
That's not so impressive. Nearly anyone could tell that he isn't from around here—that he's not Alethi, at least. He has to roll up the cuffs of his too-long trousers so that they don't drag on the floor. And plenty of people heard Jasnah refer to him as the Wit the other day, so—
"I don't have any money, if that's what you're after." If this is some strange extortion to keep his foreign status a secret.
Hoid's grin fades — not all at once, but like a curtain being drawn with care. The levity doesn't vanish so much as fold itself away. Neatly. As if he's decided this is no longer the moment for it.
"Oh, stars, no," he says mildly. "If I wanted money, I'd already have it. Along with your shoes. Possibly that — is that a bob?"
A thoughtful hum, as if he's considering it for his next haircut — and then a shake of his head. He sobers fully, meeting Verso's eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, steadier. The tone of someone who knows exactly when a joke would be the wrong instrument.
"I need you to pass along a message," he says, "to the Queen."
He draws an envelope from inside his jacket.
"The Ghostbloods are active again on Roshar. Not merely sniffing around the edges. Active. They've taken an interest in her before, and they don't tend to admire people twice without acting."
It's clear he thinks this ought to be very fresh, very fascinating news.
Verso stares back, eyes blank and uncomprehending. He doesn't know anything about a Ghostblood, or what it means for them to be 'active' (or 'sniffing around the edges', for that matter). Uncharitably, he thinks that it's some more of that political stuff Jasnah can't ever stop talking about.
He glances at the envelope in his unwanted visitor's hands, and then, because he's been put in a Mood™ post-Jasnah, walks past him to go close the opened book he must have been perusing.
"You can tell her yourself," he says, smoothing out the spine.
"I'd love to," he answers. "Truly. Nothing would make my evening brighter than strolling up to the Queen and announcing myself like a badly timed punchline."
He tilts his head, considering the ceiling as if calculating orbital mechanics in his head. "But I would very much prefer she not know I was here. Not yet. Ideally not until I'm well and truly clear of the planetary system. Possibly several light-years clear. For health reasons."
He taps his chest once. Reasons to do with my health implied.
Ah. It all clicks into place. This is the man Jasnah fired. Verso wants, suddenly, to ask if she'd been as critical then, too, or if it's just because she's found a defect in him specifically. He doesn't. Just as much as he wants to ask, he doesn't want to know the answer.
He does, however, turn back and hold out a hand, fingers curling and uncurling to indicate that he wants the envelope. "Fine. I'll drop your letter off."
Hoid has never met someone else's dark mood he didn't feel compelled to brighten — well, except for Torol Sadeas. And Rayse. And Captain Crow. And...look, the point is that he often finds himself in places he didn't expect to be for reasons he doesn't understand. Fortune compels him to end up where he needs to be to make some difference. So now, despite having desperately wanted moments ago to put the envelope into Verso's hand and be gone, he withholds it.
"Mm. That look. Yes. I know that one."
He lifts the envelope just out of reach — not to be cruel, more like he's buying a moment. "She's a hard woman to work for, isn't she? She listens like she's weighing stones in her hand. Deciding which ones she can build with, and which ones she should drop in the river. Exacting standards." A pause, almost mischievous. "And a dreadful habit of assuming everyone else enjoys being held to them."
It's part sympathy, part nosiness — but the interest is real.
Verso's hand reaches up for the envelope, but annoyingly, he's shorter than everyone here. A tough pill to swallow for someone who used to do this exact thing to his sisters to irritate them with his natural height advantage. Now he understands why Clea would smack him for it.
"There's nothing to talk about," he says, lowering his hand and crossing his arms.
Verso, may you never learn that Hoid is in fact much shorter but Fakes It with magic just to look cool among all the Alethi giants.
"Always?" He repeats lightly. "No. Not Always."
Hoid backs up three steps and places the envelope gingerly atop the piano. Not giving it over, no, but it's enough to signal that this isn't a game any longer.
"Only most of the time. Terrible management style, really. Brilliant woman. Utter menace to morale."
Verso probably shouldn't shit-talk Jasnah with this random guy, even though it would maybe feel sort of good right now, so he just says, "Sounds about right," as he walks over to the piano and picks up the envelope. "It might be a few days before I can get it to her."
Depends on which of them folds first, and how fast.
Hoid lets the delay sit there for half a heartbeat. And then his smile tightens, almost imperceptibly.
"This isn't a dinner-party scandal. When groups like the Ghostbloods resurface, they don't warm up slowly. They test. They probe. Frankly, I'm shocked they haven't yet made a move."
He sighs, exaggerated. And then brightens again like a man remembering himself. "And — a few days? — what kind of Wit lets his queen drink her morning tea without entertainment?"
A disappointing one, probably. Verso would have gladly entertained her, but after feeling quite thoroughly personally rejected by her—and for such a small comment—he can't really find it in himself to act as a trained monkey for her amusement. At least, not until he's had some time to cool off.
"Silence is good for morning contemplation," he says, flippant as a defense, before crossing the room to tuck the letter into the drawer of his nightstand. "I'll try to slip it under her door tomorrow."
He watches Verso cross the room, watches the envelope disappear into the drawer, and when he speaks again it's quieter — not careful, exactly, but tuned to the frequency of what's actually being said.
"Silence can be useful," he murmurs as he glances at Verso's piano. "Especially when someone's trying to remember who they are without an audience."
As Verso fishes out the letter from his drawer, he comments, "I thought you were eager for me to deliver your letter as soon as possible." But he does feel a little bad for the presumable struggle this man was previously put through by Jasnah, and he's not exactly in a rush to see her again so soon, so he says, "The floor is yours."
Hoid offers a shallow bow before settling back down on the piano bench. This time, he faces outwards to the room and his audience of one — leaning back with (frankly) a heinous level of manspreading that would get him jeered out of any subway car if there was any justice in any of the many, many worlds of the Cosmere.
"Once upon a time, there was a boy. This was before the storms, before memories, and before legends - but there was still a boy. He wore a long scarf to blow in the wind. The boy in the scarf played and danced, as children do today. In fact, most things were the same then as they are today. Except for two big differences. The wall, and the lack of light. Stop me if you've heard this one before."
He suddenly leans forward — elbows on his knees — at peers at Verso.
"Actually, don't stop me. You'll hurt my feelings and — besides — you've already agreed hear it. So to speak."
Verso still doesn't like this whole 'touching his piano' thing, bench included, but all he does is stare in displeasure. He gets the sense there isn't much he can do to stop this guy. (No wonder he was fired; he's kind of annoying.)
"I haven't heard it," he says, because this definitely doesn't sound like a Lumièran story. Instead of a scarf, it would be a little beret. Like the fading boy around the Continent. "...Although something tells me nothing would change if I had."
"In those days, a wall kept out the storms. You've experienced a Rosharan storm, haven't you? Yes, well — this wall had existed for so long, nobody knew how it had been built. That didn't bother them. Why wonder when the mountains began or why the sky was high? Like these things were, so the wall was. And light was not.
Of course, even without light, people still had to live, didn't they? That's what people do. I hasten to guess that's the first thing they learn how to do. So they lived in darkness, farmed in darkness, ate in darkness.
But the boy was curious. 'Why is there a wall?' He would ask the man selling fruit.
'To keep the bad things out,' he replied.
'What bad things?'
'Very bad things. There is a wall. Do not go beyond it, or you shall die' The fruit seller picked up his cart and moved away. And still, the boy looked up at the wall.
'Why is there a wall?' He asked the woman suckling her child.
'To protect us,' the woman said.
'To protect us from what?'
'Very bad things. There is a wall. Do not go beyond it, or you shall die.' The woman took her child and left. The boy climbed a tree, peeking out the top, his scarf streaming behind him.
'Why is there a wall?' He asked the girl sleeping lazily in the nook of a branch.
'What wall?' The girl asked.
The boy thrust her finger pointedly towards the wall, shrouded in darkness.
'That's not a wall, that's just the way the sky is over there.'
'It's a wall,' the boy replied. 'A giant wall.'
'It must be there on purpose,' the girl said. 'Yes, it is a wall. Don't go beyond it, you'll probably die.'
Well, these answers didn't satisfy the boy who looked up. He reasoned to himself, if the wall kept evil things out, then the space on this side of it should be safe. So, one night while the others of the village slept, he sneaked from his home with a bundle of supplies. He walked towards the wall, and indeed the land was safe. But it was still so dark. No sunlight, ever, directly reached the people."
As Hoid hits his stride in telling the story, the voices pitch and bend — a little too different from what must be his own natural voice. The little boy sounds like a little boy. The fruit seller, the woman, the sleepy girl in the tree. Each voice sounds distinct and real. Far more real than a mere actor putting it on.
As someone who does the voices himself, Verso can't help but be a bit impressed. And jealous. His voices are certainly not nearly as good.
As Hoid reaches a pause in his cadence, Verso cants his head. "Ah." He's already determined what this story must be about. Cynically, he says, "I see. The moral's going to be about not scaling over walls that you shouldn't, no?"
That there are some things people aren't meant to know. Yeah, that sounds about right to him.
Not dramatically — just enough that the air shifts. The cadence he'd been carrying loosens, the performative ease slipping away like a mask set carefully aside. When he looks at Verso now, there's something quieter there. Watchful. Almost...worried.
"Oh," he says, softly. "No. That's not the moral."
He takes a moment, like he's choosing his footing with care. And for one brief flash it's painfully easy to see why this creature would have found himself in Queen Jasnah's service. "That's the one people usually expect," he admits. "The tidy one. Don't climb the wall. Don't ask the question. Don’'t look behind the curtain."
A small shake of his head. "It's comforting, in a way. If there are lines you aren't meant to cross, then it's not your fault for stopping."
However. With a gentle hup and sweep of his hand, Hoid continues.
"The boy traveled far. The only wind was a pleasant one that played with his scarf. And the only creatures he saw were the cremlings that clicked at his side as he walked. Although, hmm, should I describe chittering squirrels for you instead? Whatever your small nuisance animal of choice — at long last, the boy stood before the wall. It was truly expansive, running as far as he could see in either direction. And it's height! It reached almost to the Tranquiline Halls! That's what they call the heavens, here on Roshar, if you haven't picked that bit up yet.
But, ah, where was I? The boy. He decided the only way he'd find answers would be to climb the wall himself. And this is ordinarily where I pause and ask my audience whether they believe our protagonist is either stupid or bold. But it does sound as though you've already made up your mind where this story ought to end."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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He rises from the bench at last — stretching like a cat. And although he steps closer, he stops well short of Verso's personal space, hands spread in a show of peace that somehow manages to look theatrical.
"You," he says with a mild rise in his brows, "are a half-beat off. Not a Rosharan rhythm at all, at all. Don't worry," he adds with a conciliatory rush. "I won't tell anyone. People get very strange about that sort of thing."
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"I don't have any money, if that's what you're after." If this is some strange extortion to keep his foreign status a secret.
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"Oh, stars, no," he says mildly. "If I wanted money, I'd already have it. Along with your shoes. Possibly that — is that a bob?"
A thoughtful hum, as if he's considering it for his next haircut — and then a shake of his head. He sobers fully, meeting Verso's eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, steadier. The tone of someone who knows exactly when a joke would be the wrong instrument.
"I need you to pass along a message," he says, "to the Queen."
He draws an envelope from inside his jacket.
"The Ghostbloods are active again on Roshar. Not merely sniffing around the edges. Active. They've taken an interest in her before, and they don't tend to admire people twice without acting."
It's clear he thinks this ought to be very fresh, very fascinating news.
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He glances at the envelope in his unwanted visitor's hands, and then, because he's been put in a Mood™ post-Jasnah, walks past him to go close the opened book he must have been perusing.
"You can tell her yourself," he says, smoothing out the spine.
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"I'd love to," he answers. "Truly. Nothing would make my evening brighter than strolling up to the Queen and announcing myself like a badly timed punchline."
He tilts his head, considering the ceiling as if calculating orbital mechanics in his head. "But I would very much prefer she not know I was here. Not yet. Ideally not until I'm well and truly clear of the planetary system. Possibly several light-years clear. For health reasons."
He taps his chest once. Reasons to do with my health implied.
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He does, however, turn back and hold out a hand, fingers curling and uncurling to indicate that he wants the envelope. "Fine. I'll drop your letter off."
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"Mm. That look. Yes. I know that one."
He lifts the envelope just out of reach — not to be cruel, more like he's buying a moment. "She's a hard woman to work for, isn't she? She listens like she's weighing stones in her hand. Deciding which ones she can build with, and which ones she should drop in the river. Exacting standards." A pause, almost mischievous. "And a dreadful habit of assuming everyone else enjoys being held to them."
It's part sympathy, part nosiness — but the interest is real.
"Would you like to talk about it?"
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"There's nothing to talk about," he says, lowering his hand and crossing his arms.
A beat—
"She's always like that?"
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"Always?" He repeats lightly. "No. Not Always."
Hoid backs up three steps and places the envelope gingerly atop the piano. Not giving it over, no, but it's enough to signal that this isn't a game any longer.
"Only most of the time. Terrible management style, really. Brilliant woman. Utter menace to morale."
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Depends on which of them folds first, and how fast.
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"This isn't a dinner-party scandal. When groups like the Ghostbloods resurface, they don't warm up slowly. They test. They probe. Frankly, I'm shocked they haven't yet made a move."
He sighs, exaggerated. And then brightens again like a man remembering himself. "And — a few days? — what kind of Wit lets his queen drink her morning tea without entertainment?"
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"Silence is good for morning contemplation," he says, flippant as a defense, before crossing the room to tuck the letter into the drawer of his nightstand. "I'll try to slip it under her door tomorrow."
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He watches Verso cross the room, watches the envelope disappear into the drawer, and when he speaks again it's quieter — not careful, exactly, but tuned to the frequency of what's actually being said.
"Silence can be useful," he murmurs as he glances at Verso's piano. "Especially when someone's trying to remember who they are without an audience."
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"—Fine, I'll take it to her tonight." If that'll make him go.
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And he wonders why he gets a reputation for being an annoying asshole. Well — actually, he doesn't wonder at all. He's well aware. Still.
Hoid raps his knuckles lightly against the piano's sidewall. It creates a funny, sonorous sound as the vibrations knock around the cavity.
"Can't I at least interest you in a story before you do? Free of charge. A once in a lifetime deal, really."
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"Once upon a time, there was a boy. This was before the storms, before memories, and before legends - but there was still a boy. He wore a long scarf to blow in the wind. The boy in the scarf played and danced, as children do today. In fact, most things were the same then as they are today. Except for two big differences. The wall, and the lack of light. Stop me if you've heard this one before."
He suddenly leans forward — elbows on his knees — at peers at Verso.
"Actually, don't stop me. You'll hurt my feelings and — besides — you've already agreed hear it. So to speak."
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"I haven't heard it," he says, because this definitely doesn't sound like a Lumièran story. Instead of a scarf, it would be a little beret. Like the fading boy around the Continent. "...Although something tells me nothing would change if I had."
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Of course, even without light, people still had to live, didn't they? That's what people do. I hasten to guess that's the first thing they learn how to do. So they lived in darkness, farmed in darkness, ate in darkness.
But the boy was curious. 'Why is there a wall?' He would ask the man selling fruit.
'To keep the bad things out,' he replied.
'What bad things?'
'Very bad things. There is a wall. Do not go beyond it, or you shall die' The fruit seller picked up his cart and moved away. And still, the boy looked up at the wall.
'Why is there a wall?' He asked the woman suckling her child.
'To protect us,' the woman said.
'To protect us from what?'
'Very bad things. There is a wall. Do not go beyond it, or you shall die.' The woman took her child and left. The boy climbed a tree, peeking out the top, his scarf streaming behind him.
'Why is there a wall?' He asked the girl sleeping lazily in the nook of a branch.
'What wall?' The girl asked.
The boy thrust her finger pointedly towards the wall, shrouded in darkness.
'That's not a wall, that's just the way the sky is over there.'
'It's a wall,' the boy replied. 'A giant wall.'
'It must be there on purpose,' the girl said. 'Yes, it is a wall. Don't go beyond it, you'll probably die.'
Well, these answers didn't satisfy the boy who looked up. He reasoned to himself, if the wall kept evil things out, then the space on this side of it should be safe. So, one night while the others of the village slept, he sneaked from his home with a bundle of supplies. He walked towards the wall, and indeed the land was safe. But it was still so dark. No sunlight, ever, directly reached the people."
As Hoid hits his stride in telling the story, the voices pitch and bend — a little too different from what must be his own natural voice. The little boy sounds like a little boy. The fruit seller, the woman, the sleepy girl in the tree. Each voice sounds distinct and real. Far more real than a mere actor putting it on.
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As Hoid reaches a pause in his cadence, Verso cants his head. "Ah." He's already determined what this story must be about. Cynically, he says, "I see. The moral's going to be about not scaling over walls that you shouldn't, no?"
That there are some things people aren't meant to know. Yeah, that sounds about right to him.
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Not dramatically — just enough that the air shifts. The cadence he'd been carrying loosens, the performative ease slipping away like a mask set carefully aside. When he looks at Verso now, there's something quieter there. Watchful. Almost...worried.
"Oh," he says, softly. "No. That's not the moral."
He takes a moment, like he's choosing his footing with care. And for one brief flash it's painfully easy to see why this creature would have found himself in Queen Jasnah's service. "That's the one people usually expect," he admits. "The tidy one. Don't climb the wall. Don't ask the question. Don’'t look behind the curtain."
A small shake of his head. "It's comforting, in a way. If there are lines you aren't meant to cross, then it's not your fault for stopping."
However. With a gentle hup and sweep of his hand, Hoid continues.
"The boy traveled far. The only wind was a pleasant one that played with his scarf. And the only creatures he saw were the cremlings that clicked at his side as he walked. Although, hmm, should I describe chittering squirrels for you instead? Whatever your small nuisance animal of choice — at long last, the boy stood before the wall. It was truly expansive, running as far as he could see in either direction. And it's height! It reached almost to the Tranquiline Halls! That's what they call the heavens, here on Roshar, if you haven't picked that bit up yet.
But, ah, where was I? The boy. He decided the only way he'd find answers would be to climb the wall himself. And this is ordinarily where I pause and ask my audience whether they believe our protagonist is either stupid or bold. But it does sound as though you've already made up your mind where this story ought to end."
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