[ admittedly, she's only seen a dash of snow herself. nothing that lasts. seasons are...strange, on roshar. not in anyway that jasnah realizes they're strange, of course, because for her it's simply normal. at best, seasons last weeks and are more like cycling variations in temperature and precipitation.
but the highstorms (and the newer storm, the everstorm) are something else entirely. not weather, but splintered power — the shadow of a dead would-be god, roaming the planet. wreaking damnation.
— in the meantime, the server returns and places two cups and a plate of fruit. sliced; arranged; nudged more to jasnah's side of the table. currying favour with the sovereign. she thanks the man quietly before dismissing him. ]
There's no surviving a highstorm. [ well, that's not strictly true. but she's not about to tell stories about kaladin stormblessed today. ] To be caught out in one is certain death. Our homes, our villages, our cities are all built to break the wind and survive the rain.
[ Verso wonders what it might be like to stand out in a highstorm, the novel and fascinating weather raging around him, but his immortality doesn't mean invulnerability; he still feels pain, and the threat of that is enough to keep him from doing anything that might leave him battered and beaten. ]
Stay inside during storms. Noted.
[ He picks up his glass, gently swirling the liquid like a true connoisseur before taking a sip and— choking. It burns in a way he hadn't at all expected, body rejecting the unexpected sharpness as he swallows it. He coughs, palm pressed to his mouth. ]
[ idly, she touches a finger to the foot of her cup. while he's busy taking his first sip, jasnah breaths in a lick of stormlight and focuses on the cup, on its contents — it's over in barely a second, but she accesses her power just long enough to soulcast her orange wine into a pure version of itself.
— now, it likely already was a pure version of itself. but jasnah is a paranoid creature, and makes a habit of soulcasting any food or drink handed to her by a stranger. in case of poisoning.
precautions complete, she glances across the table just in time to catch his reaction. jasnah pauses, tilting her head, before her mouth quirks in a small smile. ]
I might not understand the words, [ she confesses, ] but I know profanity when I hear it. How very ungentlemanly.
[ placid, she takes a deep drink of her own wine. the orange is so much more palatable. ]
[ Fuck. This is not wine. Verso would know; drinking an excessive amount of wine is one of his regular pastimes, alongside playing Solitaire and brooding. Yet— they've called it wine, and it would certainly be culturally offensive to claim otherwise.
Culturally offensive and correct. ]
I was just surprised at how... good it is.
[ Gritting his teeth, Verso takes a large swig. Hard liquor is most certainly not his favored drink, and it actually stings going down. ]
[ her eyes watch him over the rim of her cup. jasnah drinks again, visibly enjoying the much milder orange. so mild, it's barely alcoholic. thoughtful, she sets her wine down on the table and — lifting just slightly out of her chair — leans forward.
[ Does he trust her? Not particularly. It's no slight against her; Verso hasn't trusted another human being in nearly seventy years. Maybe even before that. Trusting someone requires being willing to show them who you really are, warts and all. Verso hasn't done that since... well, ever.
But he isn't afraid of her messing with the not-wine, so he reaches out to hand her the cup, selfishly letting their fingers brush for a split second, as if by accident, before he withdraws his hand. Just because this isn't a date doesn't mean that he can't microdose a little bit of human intimacy. ]
[ — at least it wasn't a hornheater white, she supposes.
jasnah doesn't drink the stuff. rather, she swirls it in its cup, eyeing the liquid. thinking about her approach. determinedly not thinking about the brief contact between her thumb and the edge of his palm. ugh, if she lets herself stay distracted, she'll fail this display. soulcasting is a queer art, relying on a careful balance of confidence and plausibility. if she's going to peer into the cognitive realm and demand the very axi of this liquid to change, she'd better give it a compelling reason.
but before she attempts anything, she tilts her head towards her own cup. the mild, gingery orange wine. ]
Try mine. Then describe what you'd prefer. We'll see if we can't get you closer to what you should have ordered.
[ Verso's not afraid of her messing with the not-wine. However, he is a little afraid of trying her not-wine. The violet drink had been so acrid and strong, with a strange undertaste he can't quite name, and he half-expects this drink to taste the same. He swirls it, too, sniffing its aroma—far less intense, thank god—before committing to a sip.
Instant relief. It's much more mild. Not quite wine, but palatable. He sets the cup down on the table. ]
That one's better, [ he admits. Although he's hesitant to come across as ungrateful after she brought him here, she did ask him to describe what he'd like better, so, ] ...But in Lumière, wine is made of fermented grapes. There's, ah, Merlot. It can almost taste like a bittersweet chocolate.
[ it begs the question, doesn't it? why pay for wine at all if she can simply...change it. except this is truly a bit of flash and indulgence. soulcasting takes enough stormlight to make the whole thing rather...uneconomical.
nevertheless, a scene plays out similar to what happened before they took the oathgate to the shattered plains. jasnah breathes in, stealing the glow from a garnet in a nearby brazier — the winehouse staff won't appreciate it, but dun spheres were still worth their value in the rosharan economy. for just a moment, there is a far-off look in her eyes as she shifts her attention to shadesmar, the realm of thought underpinning the physical.
change, she commands the surly axi of the violet wine. they resist. change, and be savoured. change, and be enjoyed. the very molecules wobble. and when jasnah exhales, stormlight leaks from the corner of her frown. she convinces the violet to become an auburn, honing in on his mention of fermented grapes.
a moment longer, and she sits back. satisfied. ]
Go on. [ she sets the cup back on the table. ] Try not to make such a face this time.
[ an auburn ought to be closer to a red wine. it's made with a different fruit, however, and will never actually approximate real wine. ]
[ Magic is a relatively common occurrence in Lumière. The Chroma within every living thing allows for casting, although how attuned one is to the Chroma varies. Verso himself can only do a little, infusions of light energy into his blade; shockingly mundane given the intelligent design behind his existence. Even those who are more gifted with magic can't do anything quite like this, though, so the soulcasting impresses. He watches carefully, one eyebrow raised in interest. ]
Impressive. [ Unlike Jasnah, he's not withholding with compliments. ] Although I don't recall making a face.
[ He definitely did.
The auburn is certainly more to his taste. More recognizable as— not wine, exactly, but something close. Still, for a moment, there's a wistful look in his eyes as he realizes he may never taste his favorite wine ever again. As long as he's here, he'll never have a model train set. He'll never find a new composition for the piano.
It's a small price to pay, and so he shoves any inappropriate disappointment down. ]
Better still. Is everyone here capable of wine transmutation?
[ she gives him a look that says "you definitely made a face." but it's all soon swept away by a measure of self-satisfaction. she takes pride in her surgebinding, and so rarely uses it for something so mundane. more often than not, it's a skill kept guarded unless she considered something to be a valuable application. ]
Soulcasting. [ her correction is mild — more informative than corrective, really. ] And no. Only two Knight Radiant orders are capable of it, and in both cases it's a rather advanced technique. We do have fabrials, however, that can achieve some similar effects.
[ fabrials, as he's doubtless learned by now, are simply any device or machine powered by infused gems. his room has a fabrial heater. the elevators in the tower are fabrials. the oathgates are just giant fabrials. technology, but make it magic!
she goes back to her orange wine, intentionally ignoring the minor scandal it would be if someone learned she'd shared a cup with a man. alethi gender norms are messed up. ]
In future, order an Auburn. Not least of all so you can make it down the stairs without stumbling.
[ In future, she says, and Verso does not ask if that means there will be more outings like this one. Another thing he doesn't mention, although his eyebrow quirks a little higher as he contemplates it, is the fact that she just used what she herself proclaims to be an 'advanced technique' when she could have simply sent his drink back. Jasnah, he thinks, may be as much of a show-off as he is.
Case in point, he brags. ] I can hold my liquor better than that.
[ He cannot, actually. A few glasses of wine in and he's liable to start wine-drunk crying, but Jasnah never needs to learn that. ]
You'd like our wine, I think. It's... elegant. Sophisticated. [ A cant of his head, as if to make the comparison like you. ] Sometimes bitter, but in a pleasing way.
[ what are you talking about. jasnah absolutely must learn that. ]
I'd like that, I think.
[ she swirls her orange, eyeing its contents before taking about mouthful. she lets the taste settle, then swallows. it's weak by design, as he now knows, and tastes close to juice than alcohol. ergo, she makes no face. ]
Trying wine from another world. Comparing it. Learning all the little divergent paths through history and society that made that wine what it is instead of what it isn't.
[ if she catches the implication under his adjectives — ah, well, she ignores it. or she chalks it up to his playful nature. or she dismisses it as conversational manipulation. believes anything other than what it could be.
she stares at him a moment. eyes narrowing, a question forming in the back of her throat. jasnah inhales, ready to ask — when a smudge on the horizon catches her eye. ]
The highstorm. [ she stands, pushing back her chair and carrying her wine the few feet it takes to step onto the balcony. she looks back at him, excitement undeniable. ] It's coming.
[ Ah. This is definitively not a date, because she'd taken his attempt to flatter her with a thinly veiled comparison and made it about comparing and contrasting drinks from different worlds.
He shakes it off, following her lead and taking his cup along with him as he once again plods behind her like a lost puppy. Jasnah's gaze is on the horizon, so he turns his there as well, squinting at the dark spot before turning his attention back to her. ]
Is it safe to be out on the terrace like this?
[ She'd just gone on about how deadly the storms are, after all. It's less a concern for his own safety—no matter what happens, he'll bounce back quickly enough, like it never happened—than for hers. ]
[ that smudge on the horizon grows, gains texture, sparks with lightning in the depths of its clouds. so strange, she thinks, to now know what powers the heart of that storm — the stormfather, a cognitive shadow of honor himself. ]
For now.
[ the air temperature drops. she can feel her skin turn to gooseflesh under her havah. jasnah braces herself with a breath and resists a shiver. ]
When the stormwall crosses into the camp, they'll shutter the balcony and escort us into the bunkers. That's the true point of this place, Dessendre — a perch from where we can watch the storm hit. And then retreat.
[ did he think she'd brought him here for the wine alone? she could have had amphora delivered back at urithiru. no, if he is to eke out any kind of life here on roshar then he needs to gain a healthy respect for the highstorm. ]
[ Yes, he'd thought she brought him here for the wine. Another foolish assumption, he realizes. Visiting a winehouse for the sake of it must seem rather pedestrian to her. ]
Bunkers, [ he echoes, both eyebrows raised now. Lumière certainly never had any of those. No reason to. Some had tried to hide when their time came, holing up in their homes or other buildings out of the Paintress's sight, but it hadn't mattered. The Gommage can find you wherever you are.
Verso realizes, slowly, that perhaps the highstorms are more intense than he'd thought if they're going to be sequestered in bunkers. A question he probably should have asked long before now: ] How long does a highstorm last?
[ she doesn't tear her eyes off the darkening horizon. no matter how many stormwalls she's seen — most of them from above, in urithiru — it's hard to shake a sense of...awe? no, can't be awe. more like the wary respect one feels when watching a predator. that feeling has since been intensified upon learning the true nature of the highstorm. ]
They're longest in the summer seasons. But today's?
[ she tilts her head, breathing deep the ionized air. ]
Three, maybe. Four if we also wait out the riddens. [ a softer, drizzling rain that is entirely safe to go out in — but perhaps an inconvenience. ]
[ Hours. Okay. Well, he might have been less inclined to believe this was a date if she'd been upfront that the main event would be spending hours in a bunker. A little less intimate than he'd expected, or maybe hoped.
He takes another sip of the now-auburn, taking a distant sort of note of all the ways in which it differs from traditional wine. Jasnah will be interested in that, he imagines; might as well start thinking about it prior to the inevitable interrogation. ]
That's quite a while to be holed up. What do you do to pass the time?
[ she folds her arms across the balcony rail, only now glancing aside to meet his eyes. the wind continues to pick up; she can feel it plucking and prying at her carefully pinned braids. ]
During storms, as a child, I would read to my brother and my cousins. I made certain it felt like a treat — letting them pick the books. If they were very well-behaved, I would even read the undertext.
[ it takes her a moment to realize he might not understand the significance. ]
As men don't read, their wives and daughters and sisters do all their reading for them. Those women also write the texts, and it's common to add your own annotations — never meant to be read aloud, shared only with others. A wife might add bits of truth to her husband's biography. A scholar might make note of a handsome guard.
[ she looks back at the oncoming storm. five, maybe ten minutes — then they'll need to take shelter. ]
[ Verso is, unfortunately, paying more attention to Jasnah than to the incoming storm. He leans against the railing, cup held by the rim as he listens to her talk. It's very strange to imagine not reading, but he supposes he can picture what it might be like. Clea, like Jasnah, favored the cold hard facts over fiction, so he'd rarely had the benefit of being read to by her— but he can recall his mother reading to him as rain gently drizzled outside their window, his head in her lap as she stroked his hair.
Not the same as being holed up in a bunker while illiterate, but. Similar enough that he can picture it. He's contemplative for a moment, and then: ]
Bring any books?
[ He's not expecting to be read to, but they could at least pass the time reading together. ]
[ she can feel his attention on her. yes, some of her powers of observation leave something to be desired in the genres of flirting and dating. but she's not wholly ignorant of why one person might choose to watch another person instead of the veritable spectacle of nature sweeping across the plains.
jasnah sniffs, thoughtful, and drains the rest of her orange wine with very practical gulp. elegant only in that it's efficient, confident. ]
No. I trust the women's side will have a small but sufficient selection.
[ like putting out thin, stealthy feelers — she looks at him again, searching for any disappointment in his expression. wondering if the possibility of being split on sex-segregated lines for the next few hours bothers him as much as the violet wine did. ]
I'm sure there will be rousing games of Towers or Pieces on the men's side.
[ There is a small measure of disappointment. He'd expected that they'd be spending time together, and it's not exciting to realize that this outing actually entails spending hours in a bunker with a group of strange men while they wait out a storm. The feeling makes itself known on his face for only a moment before he takes another sip and course-corrects. This, Jasnah will learn soon enough, is his way. Perfect children don't have hopes or disappointments, and if they do, they smother them down in favor of pleasing other people. ]
[ there is, perhaps, a wicked spark of gratification when she catches his slight slight slight dismay — and it's less about wanting him to want her company, and more about being correct in her assumptions.
equally gratifying, perhaps, is the restraint he shows in his disappointment. she appreciates a man — anyone, really — with mastery over his outward reactions. ]
Doubtful.
[ because she has no sweet clue what 'chess' is. and if she doesn't, she can't imagine any of the soldiers, labourers, or waitstaff will.
the rain starts. jasnah uses the edge of her gloved palm to wipe the first few drops off her cheek. thunder rattles, soon after. the dust and debris kicked up by the storm is growing more and more apparent. highstorms can move boulders.
she walks backward, like she doesn't want to put her back to the oncoming clouds. she's stopped watching him, again, as she plays her one card: ]
Tell me, Dessendre. Would you rather join me on the women's side?
[ ...it's not like the winehouse was busy to begin with. and it's not like anyone will deny the alethi queen, even if the command is an unholy one. ]
[ Yes, he would rather. Spark of interest aside, Jasnah is really the only person in this strange new world he knows well enough to call a friend, even if he's not entirely certain she would deign to call him the same. (She does seem to enjoy regarding him like a stray dog that won't stop nipping at her heels.) Verso has always been socially adept, but decades spent with minimal human interaction have blunted the skills a bit, so he's less confident than he might have been that he'll walk into that bunker alone and walk out the most popular man in the room.
He's not sure if she's asking because she wants him to come, though, or if it's simply a tease. Alethi customs around gender seem quite rigid from what she's told him, and he's unsure if such a thing would even be allowed.
As an opaque way of asking, he runs his fingers over his jaw. ]
[ what on roshar does she mean by that?! he'll never know, because she doesn't follow up with any kind of explainer.
nor does she pry further or ask again or even seem to consider whether he does or does not want her to intercede on his behave to make the next few hours less isolated or lonely. it's not as though jasnah would have any issue with a few hours to herself. she does her best work alone.
metallic grinding and clattering fills the winehouse as the staff begin to pull the storm shutters over the balcony — light dwindles as the shutters close, leaving the infused spheres along the walls to illuminate the room. rain washed onto the stone floor, sneaking inside the shrinking gap.
jasnah hails the doorman, whose duty has now become ushering everyone safely into the bowels of the building. when he nears, she slips easily into queenly authority. some say she never left it. ]
I'll not be separated from... [ she looks at verso over her shoulder, wondering how much lie to tell and how much truth. ] My retinue.
[ the doorman (kinda foolishly, frankly) argues that he knows what the cobalt guard uniforms look like, and that man ain't it. ]
Plain clothes. [ she counters. ] More discreet that way.
[ they haggle a moment longer, until both jasnah and her stray dog are being led into the same shelter-side. ]
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but the highstorms (and the newer storm, the everstorm) are something else entirely. not weather, but splintered power — the shadow of a dead would-be god, roaming the planet. wreaking damnation.
— in the meantime, the server returns and places two cups and a plate of fruit. sliced; arranged; nudged more to jasnah's side of the table. currying favour with the sovereign. she thanks the man quietly before dismissing him. ]
There's no surviving a highstorm. [ well, that's not strictly true. but she's not about to tell stories about kaladin stormblessed today. ] To be caught out in one is certain death. Our homes, our villages, our cities are all built to break the wind and survive the rain.
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Stay inside during storms. Noted.
[ He picks up his glass, gently swirling the liquid like a true connoisseur before taking a sip and— choking. It burns in a way he hadn't at all expected, body rejecting the unexpected sharpness as he swallows it. He coughs, palm pressed to his mouth. ]
Putain de merde.
[ Less gentlemanly. ]
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— now, it likely already was a pure version of itself. but jasnah is a paranoid creature, and makes a habit of soulcasting any food or drink handed to her by a stranger. in case of poisoning.
precautions complete, she glances across the table just in time to catch his reaction. jasnah pauses, tilting her head, before her mouth quirks in a small smile. ]
I might not understand the words, [ she confesses, ] but I know profanity when I hear it. How very ungentlemanly.
[ placid, she takes a deep drink of her own wine. the orange is so much more palatable. ]
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Culturally offensive and correct. ]
I was just surprised at how... good it is.
[ Gritting his teeth, Verso takes a large swig. Hard liquor is most certainly not his favored drink, and it actually stings going down. ]
Mmm.
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[ her eyes watch him over the rim of her cup. jasnah drinks again, visibly enjoying the much milder orange. so mild, it's barely alcoholic. thoughtful, she sets her wine down on the table and — lifting just slightly out of her chair — leans forward.
she holds out her right hand. ]
Give it here.
[ do you trust her, verso? ]
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But he isn't afraid of her messing with the not-wine, so he reaches out to hand her the cup, selfishly letting their fingers brush for a split second, as if by accident, before he withdraws his hand. Just because this isn't a date doesn't mean that he can't microdose a little bit of human intimacy. ]
I'm not sure you'll like it any more than I do.
no subject
[ — at least it wasn't a hornheater white, she supposes.
jasnah doesn't drink the stuff. rather, she swirls it in its cup, eyeing the liquid. thinking about her approach. determinedly not thinking about the brief contact between her thumb and the edge of his palm. ugh, if she lets herself stay distracted, she'll fail this display. soulcasting is a queer art, relying on a careful balance of confidence and plausibility. if she's going to peer into the cognitive realm and demand the very axi of this liquid to change, she'd better give it a compelling reason.
but before she attempts anything, she tilts her head towards her own cup. the mild, gingery orange wine. ]
Try mine. Then describe what you'd prefer. We'll see if we can't get you closer to what you should have ordered.
no subject
Instant relief. It's much more mild. Not quite wine, but palatable. He sets the cup down on the table. ]
That one's better, [ he admits. Although he's hesitant to come across as ungrateful after she brought him here, she did ask him to describe what he'd like better, so, ] ...But in Lumière, wine is made of fermented grapes. There's, ah, Merlot. It can almost taste like a bittersweet chocolate.
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nevertheless, a scene plays out similar to what happened before they took the oathgate to the shattered plains. jasnah breathes in, stealing the glow from a garnet in a nearby brazier — the winehouse staff won't appreciate it, but dun spheres were still worth their value in the rosharan economy. for just a moment, there is a far-off look in her eyes as she shifts her attention to shadesmar, the realm of thought underpinning the physical.
change, she commands the surly axi of the violet wine. they resist. change, and be savoured. change, and be enjoyed. the very molecules wobble. and when jasnah exhales, stormlight leaks from the corner of her frown. she convinces the violet to become an auburn, honing in on his mention of fermented grapes.
a moment longer, and she sits back. satisfied. ]
Go on. [ she sets the cup back on the table. ] Try not to make such a face this time.
[ an auburn ought to be closer to a red wine. it's made with a different fruit, however, and will never actually approximate real wine. ]
no subject
Impressive. [ Unlike Jasnah, he's not withholding with compliments. ] Although I don't recall making a face.
[ He definitely did.
The auburn is certainly more to his taste. More recognizable as— not wine, exactly, but something close. Still, for a moment, there's a wistful look in his eyes as he realizes he may never taste his favorite wine ever again. As long as he's here, he'll never have a model train set. He'll never find a new composition for the piano.
It's a small price to pay, and so he shoves any inappropriate disappointment down. ]
Better still. Is everyone here capable of wine transmutation?
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Soulcasting. [ her correction is mild — more informative than corrective, really. ] And no. Only two Knight Radiant orders are capable of it, and in both cases it's a rather advanced technique. We do have fabrials, however, that can achieve some similar effects.
[ fabrials, as he's doubtless learned by now, are simply any device or machine powered by infused gems. his room has a fabrial heater. the elevators in the tower are fabrials. the oathgates are just giant fabrials. technology, but make it magic!
she goes back to her orange wine, intentionally ignoring the minor scandal it would be if someone learned she'd shared a cup with a man. alethi gender norms are messed up. ]
In future, order an Auburn. Not least of all so you can make it down the stairs without stumbling.
no subject
Case in point, he brags. ] I can hold my liquor better than that.
[ He cannot, actually. A few glasses of wine in and he's liable to start wine-drunk crying, but Jasnah never needs to learn that. ]
You'd like our wine, I think. It's... elegant. Sophisticated. [ A cant of his head, as if to make the comparison like you. ] Sometimes bitter, but in a pleasing way.
no subject
I'd like that, I think.
[ she swirls her orange, eyeing its contents before taking about mouthful. she lets the taste settle, then swallows. it's weak by design, as he now knows, and tastes close to juice than alcohol. ergo, she makes no face. ]
Trying wine from another world. Comparing it. Learning all the little divergent paths through history and society that made that wine what it is instead of what it isn't.
[ if she catches the implication under his adjectives — ah, well, she ignores it. or she chalks it up to his playful nature. or she dismisses it as conversational manipulation. believes anything other than what it could be.
she stares at him a moment. eyes narrowing, a question forming in the back of her throat. jasnah inhales, ready to ask — when a smudge on the horizon catches her eye. ]
The highstorm. [ she stands, pushing back her chair and carrying her wine the few feet it takes to step onto the balcony. she looks back at him, excitement undeniable. ] It's coming.
[ ah! the adrenaline rush. ]
no subject
He shakes it off, following her lead and taking his cup along with him as he once again plods behind her like a lost puppy. Jasnah's gaze is on the horizon, so he turns his there as well, squinting at the dark spot before turning his attention back to her. ]
Is it safe to be out on the terrace like this?
[ She'd just gone on about how deadly the storms are, after all. It's less a concern for his own safety—no matter what happens, he'll bounce back quickly enough, like it never happened—than for hers. ]
no subject
For now.
[ the air temperature drops. she can feel her skin turn to gooseflesh under her havah. jasnah braces herself with a breath and resists a shiver. ]
When the stormwall crosses into the camp, they'll shutter the balcony and escort us into the bunkers. That's the true point of this place, Dessendre — a perch from where we can watch the storm hit. And then retreat.
[ did he think she'd brought him here for the wine alone? she could have had amphora delivered back at urithiru. no, if he is to eke out any kind of life here on roshar then he needs to gain a healthy respect for the highstorm. ]
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Bunkers, [ he echoes, both eyebrows raised now. Lumière certainly never had any of those. No reason to. Some had tried to hide when their time came, holing up in their homes or other buildings out of the Paintress's sight, but it hadn't mattered. The Gommage can find you wherever you are.
Verso realizes, slowly, that perhaps the highstorms are more intense than he'd thought if they're going to be sequestered in bunkers. A question he probably should have asked long before now: ] How long does a highstorm last?
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[ she doesn't tear her eyes off the darkening horizon. no matter how many stormwalls she's seen — most of them from above, in urithiru — it's hard to shake a sense of...awe? no, can't be awe. more like the wary respect one feels when watching a predator. that feeling has since been intensified upon learning the true nature of the highstorm. ]
They're longest in the summer seasons. But today's?
[ she tilts her head, breathing deep the ionized air. ]
Three, maybe. Four if we also wait out the riddens. [ a softer, drizzling rain that is entirely safe to go out in — but perhaps an inconvenience. ]
no subject
He takes another sip of the now-auburn, taking a distant sort of note of all the ways in which it differs from traditional wine. Jasnah will be interested in that, he imagines; might as well start thinking about it prior to the inevitable interrogation. ]
That's quite a while to be holed up. What do you do to pass the time?
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[ she folds her arms across the balcony rail, only now glancing aside to meet his eyes. the wind continues to pick up; she can feel it plucking and prying at her carefully pinned braids. ]
During storms, as a child, I would read to my brother and my cousins. I made certain it felt like a treat — letting them pick the books. If they were very well-behaved, I would even read the undertext.
[ it takes her a moment to realize he might not understand the significance. ]
As men don't read, their wives and daughters and sisters do all their reading for them. Those women also write the texts, and it's common to add your own annotations — never meant to be read aloud, shared only with others. A wife might add bits of truth to her husband's biography. A scholar might make note of a handsome guard.
[ she looks back at the oncoming storm. five, maybe ten minutes — then they'll need to take shelter. ]
no subject
Not the same as being holed up in a bunker while illiterate, but. Similar enough that he can picture it. He's contemplative for a moment, and then: ]
Bring any books?
[ He's not expecting to be read to, but they could at least pass the time reading together. ]
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jasnah sniffs, thoughtful, and drains the rest of her orange wine with very practical gulp. elegant only in that it's efficient, confident. ]
No. I trust the women's side will have a small but sufficient selection.
[ like putting out thin, stealthy feelers — she looks at him again, searching for any disappointment in his expression. wondering if the possibility of being split on sex-segregated lines for the next few hours bothers him as much as the violet wine did. ]
I'm sure there will be rousing games of Towers or Pieces on the men's side.
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[ There is a small measure of disappointment. He'd expected that they'd be spending time together, and it's not exciting to realize that this outing actually entails spending hours in a bunker with a group of strange men while they wait out a storm. The feeling makes itself known on his face for only a moment before he takes another sip and course-corrects. This, Jasnah will learn soon enough, is his way. Perfect children don't have hopes or disappointments, and if they do, they smother them down in favor of pleasing other people. ]
Any chance they've heard of Chess?
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equally gratifying, perhaps, is the restraint he shows in his disappointment. she appreciates a man — anyone, really — with mastery over his outward reactions. ]
Doubtful.
[ because she has no sweet clue what 'chess' is. and if she doesn't, she can't imagine any of the soldiers, labourers, or waitstaff will.
the rain starts. jasnah uses the edge of her gloved palm to wipe the first few drops off her cheek. thunder rattles, soon after. the dust and debris kicked up by the storm is growing more and more apparent. highstorms can move boulders.
she walks backward, like she doesn't want to put her back to the oncoming clouds. she's stopped watching him, again, as she plays her one card: ]
Tell me, Dessendre. Would you rather join me on the women's side?
[ ...it's not like the winehouse was busy to begin with. and it's not like anyone will deny the alethi queen, even if the command is an unholy one. ]
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He's not sure if she's asking because she wants him to come, though, or if it's simply a tease. Alethi customs around gender seem quite rigid from what she's told him, and he's unsure if such a thing would even be allowed.
As an opaque way of asking, he runs his fingers over his jaw. ]
I think the beard might make me stand out.
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[ what on roshar does she mean by that?! he'll never know, because she doesn't follow up with any kind of explainer.
nor does she pry further or ask again or even seem to consider whether he does or does not want her to intercede on his behave to make the next few hours less isolated or lonely. it's not as though jasnah would have any issue with a few hours to herself. she does her best work alone.
metallic grinding and clattering fills the winehouse as the staff begin to pull the storm shutters over the balcony — light dwindles as the shutters close, leaving the infused spheres along the walls to illuminate the room. rain washed onto the stone floor, sneaking inside the shrinking gap.
jasnah hails the doorman, whose duty has now become ushering everyone safely into the bowels of the building. when he nears, she slips easily into queenly authority. some say she never left it. ]
I'll not be separated from... [ she looks at verso over her shoulder, wondering how much lie to tell and how much truth. ] My retinue.
[ the doorman (kinda foolishly, frankly) argues that he knows what the cobalt guard uniforms look like, and that man ain't it. ]
Plain clothes. [ she counters. ] More discreet that way.
[ they haggle a moment longer, until both jasnah and her stray dog are being led into the same shelter-side. ]
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