[ 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. ]
[ Hello??? Now he's wondering if he should shave his beard. He doesn't have time to consider that for too long, though, because moments later she's stepping away to speak to the doorman, and Verso doesn't beat the stray dog allegations by following along behind her. He keeps a polite distance between them until she's finished, although he's still close enough to hear their conversation.
It's only once she's done speaking and they're being escorted to shelter that he leans in beside her, voice low and amused. ]
Your retinue, huh?
[ He's gathering that this is, perhaps, somewhat scandalous. ]
[ of one. out of uniform. it isn't a very deft lie — although perhaps that's just as well, as jasnah isn't fond of lies. secrets? absolutely. but secrets are different to lies. ]
I've been the target of assassination attempts in the past. This establishment won't risk depriving me of my... [ she eyes him, thoughtful. ] Bodyguard.
[ to her credit, she doesn't laugh. it's nothing against him, it's just... she really doesn't need one, does she?
the shelter itself is dimly lit by flickering spheres — stone walls, stone floors, stone ceiling. lush rugs and upholstered sofas. shelves, with books. tables, with fruit and more wine. a trio of women — scribes, she thinks — gawk from the far side of the shelter. jasnah ignores them. ]
[ When she'd said 'bunker', he'd imagined something a bit more utilitarian, although he argues with himself now that of course it makes sense for it to be a more comfortable setting given its frequent use. He gravitates toward a bookshelf for a moment, running an index finger across the spines. A small selection, Jasnah had said, but it's still more books than he'd had regular access to on the Continent. (Just wait until he gets to that library.)
A moment of fascination, and then he remembers himself, turning to their company. Of course they're gawking. It's understandable, to be surprised at an interloper.
He cants his head. ]
Ladies.
Edited (WHEN YOU FORGET TO FINISH YOUR SENTENCE) 2025-11-11 19:07 (UTC)
[ the wide-eyed an curious audience watches as verso touches the books. now, it's certainly not heretical for a man to touch a book — but societal taboos create all kinds of funny, strange circumstances. to the scribes, the scene carries a twinge of the forbidden. that slightly askew sensation of sin and guilt and reversed expectations. one scribe whispers something to the other two. awkwardly, they twitter.
jasnah rolls her eyes. not out of critique for the young women — they're allowed their fascination — but she's familiar enough, now, with verso's demeanor that she worries what their attention will do to his showmanship.
— nabbing a book off the shelf, she steps up beside him. almost shoulder to shoulder. she keeps her back to the women, presumably because it would be inconvenient to be recognized. not a dealbreaker, necessarily. just annoying.
she leaves through the pages, looking for marginalia. ]
Careful. [ she teases. ] They're already imagining the scandal. No need to give them evidence. Unless you'd prefer to play an ardent over a bodyguard.
[ ardents being those shaved-head priests he might have seen around the tower. the only men in the vorin religion who do learn reading and writing. ]
[ All right, yes, maybe Jasnah is correct that being looked at and tittered about is inflating his ego. His lips twitch into a faint but somehow still unmistakably smug grin as he shifts to prop up an elbow and lean handsomely against the shelf, putting on a performance for the sake of it. At least someone here is interested in him.
Glutton for punishment that he is, though, Verso is of course only interested in the one person here who shows little interest in him at all. Aware that perhaps she actually won't want him to embarrass her by entirely flouting cultural expectations, he quiets his voice to tease, ] I thought you liked a little heresy.
[ she doesn't look up from the page — sensing his lean instead from the soft sway of the shelf. the faintest tilt of her head, a flick of the eye that could slice. the turn of her mouth suggests she's more amused than scandalized. ]
Don't flatter yourself. Heresy challenges the mind. You're aiming for attention.
[ the difference is palpable. isn't it? or is she just sensitized to it, now that she has to share his performance with a wider room. ]
There's a difference between provoking thought and performing... [ a beat. temptation? no, that will only make him grin and preen all the more. ] Whatever it is you think you're performing.
[ He's performing the very charming and handsome man of leisure, which has historically worked out quite well for him. It has been quite a while since he's relied on that particular archetype, though—it's difficult to pull off on the Continent, where he instead leans on being mysterious and tortured and good at hitting things with a sword—so perhaps it's grown a little stale. It doesn't seem to have any great effect on her, at least, although very little has. She's only ever seemed moved by his piano-playing, although it's just as possible she was more wowed by the piano itself than anything he did.
Hmm. He holds out a hand. ]
I'm happy to provoke some thought, if you like.
[ He'll read right here, right now, in front of everyone!!! ]
[ her gaze drops to his hand. she considers it, for a moment. she considers him. beneath all the banter, she understand how the stakes must feel very different to an outsider. at the same time, she fervently believes that there shouldn't be stakes at all. why shouldn't they encourage boys to read and write? why should it be heresy?
and she thinks on a conversation she once had with her uncle when they started calling him heretic too. she'd cautioned him not to let it define him. it's getting easier, day by day, as others shake off conventions and superstitions and edicts. ]
Alright.
[ but not this book. she shelves the book in her hands. and (taking two steps closer to verso to reach it) jasnah selects relic and monument — it had caught her eye earlier. tipping it outward, she offers him one of her published works. ]
All right, [ he echoes with the tone of a little boy who doesn't know how to back down from a challenge. He takes the book in hand, tilting his head as he looks down at the cover, the author. Oh. Now that's interesting.
It's not a deterrent, though. Still leaning against the shelf, he makes a show of considering the cover, then flipping it open. Not to brag (definitely to brag), but he's rather a quick reader, and he's flipping the pages before long, eyebrows raised as he reads. Without taking his eyes off of the page, he leans in with a casual, ] Quite a long preface.
[ That's right. He knows the difference between a foreword and a preface. ]
[ — okay, for all her earlier inner monologue, there is something about the vagabond angle of verso's lean and the ease with which he starts to read. it's the way these men from other worlds don't carry an ounce of insecurity in their literacy. wit had it, too. he used to lean over her shoulder, peering at the paperwork littering her desk, and offer off-colour commentary about obscure legal codes. at first, it would catch her by surprise. like she'd forgotten he could do that.
she doesn't take her eyes off him until the scribes' chattering increases in volume. one wonders whether he's a dignitary from another kingdom. another comments that he's almost too short to be alethi. the third posits that he must be faking it.
verso's quiet critique draws her attention back to him. she snorts derisively. ]
Every word was necessary. Not everyone picks it up with the requisite background information.
[ as if resentful of her own fascination with him, jasnah grabs some reading material for herself and stalks over to a low settee. she settles, straight-backed, and will certainly make him chase her to the couch if he wants to share any further opinions. ]
[ All right. That 'short' comment is a bit of a blow to his masculinity, and his eyebrow twitches just slightly. He's a perfectly respectable height everywhere but here.
He says nothing, though, not even to Jasnah's quick retort-and-retreat. When she settles down on the settee, he does the same, lowering down next to her (with a polite-but-friendly foot or so between them). Although he's sitting beside her, his posture is remarkably looser than hers as he kicks his feet up on a stool and starts reading in earnest. A few minutes stretch into tens of minutes, no sound from Verso save for the semifrequent turning of a page.
It's not quite commentary that he ends up offering, but a faint, under his breath laugh. ]
[ it isn't until he laughs — however softly — that she realizes how attuned she'd been to his body language, his progress, his presence. jasnah had been trying to dig into her chosen copy of pleadix's introspections (not for the first time) but found her attention drifting back to...his feet, propped up on a stool.
after around half an hour, even the trio of scribes tired of the spectacle. they lapsed into a conversation about chasmfiends instead. apparently, one had been spotted between a couple of nearby plateaus.
but jasnah? jasnah fixates. she isn't nervous or insecure about her publication. quite the opposite — she stands by her work. however, it's hard to say how it holds up against what might be rudimentary knowledge in another world. she'd thought herself so clever, once, until wit had pulled back the curtain on the variety of invested arts across the cosmere.
so when he laughs, she flinches. clearing her throat, but not looking up, she softly counters: ]
[ He hadn't actually meant to laugh aloud, but at her response, Verso realizes he had. He also realizes that it means she must have been listening, which he notes with some amount of private, smug pleasure.
Verso doesn't look up either, still finishing a paragraph in which Jasnah discusses the finer details of the Dawnchant. He's intelligent enough to understand most of it, aside from some of the more particular jargon that must be unique to this world, although admittedly it's not the sort of work he would ever choose to read on his own. He's reading it because she wrote it, and because she told him to. ]
Nothing.
[ A finished paragraph and another flick of the page with his thumb and index finger. ]
...It's just your writing style.
[ He could explain himself further, but perhaps—perhaps!!!—he is enjoying having her attention for once. ]
jasnah chews on his answer. there's no question in her mind that her writing style is precise, carefully edited, and pitched to be at least passably accessibly by most scholars. perhaps a touch opaque for juniors just learning to cut their teeth on barlsha lhan. ]
And?
[ she prompts, leaning back into the corner of the settee — folding an elbow against the back cushion and turning her body just so. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. ]
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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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It's only once she's done speaking and they're being escorted to shelter that he leans in beside her, voice low and amused. ]
Your retinue, huh?
[ He's gathering that this is, perhaps, somewhat scandalous. ]
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[ of one. out of uniform. it isn't a very deft lie — although perhaps that's just as well, as jasnah isn't fond of lies. secrets? absolutely. but secrets are different to lies. ]
I've been the target of assassination attempts in the past. This establishment won't risk depriving me of my... [ she eyes him, thoughtful. ] Bodyguard.
[ to her credit, she doesn't laugh. it's nothing against him, it's just... she really doesn't need one, does she?
the shelter itself is dimly lit by flickering spheres — stone walls, stone floors, stone ceiling. lush rugs and upholstered sofas. shelves, with books. tables, with fruit and more wine. a trio of women — scribes, she thinks — gawk from the far side of the shelter. jasnah ignores them. ]
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A moment of fascination, and then he remembers himself, turning to their company. Of course they're gawking. It's understandable, to be surprised at an interloper.
He cants his head. ]
Ladies.
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jasnah rolls her eyes. not out of critique for the young women — they're allowed their fascination — but she's familiar enough, now, with verso's demeanor that she worries what their attention will do to his showmanship.
— nabbing a book off the shelf, she steps up beside him. almost shoulder to shoulder. she keeps her back to the women, presumably because it would be inconvenient to be recognized. not a dealbreaker, necessarily. just annoying.
she leaves through the pages, looking for marginalia. ]
Careful. [ she teases. ] They're already imagining the scandal. No need to give them evidence. Unless you'd prefer to play an ardent over a bodyguard.
[ ardents being those shaved-head priests he might have seen around the tower. the only men in the vorin religion who do learn reading and writing. ]
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Glutton for punishment that he is, though, Verso is of course only interested in the one person here who shows little interest in him at all. Aware that perhaps she actually won't want him to embarrass her by entirely flouting cultural expectations, he quiets his voice to tease, ] I thought you liked a little heresy.
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Don't flatter yourself. Heresy challenges the mind. You're aiming for attention.
[ the difference is palpable. isn't it? or is she just sensitized to it, now that she has to share his performance with a wider room. ]
There's a difference between provoking thought and performing... [ a beat. temptation? no, that will only make him grin and preen all the more. ] Whatever it is you think you're performing.
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Hmm. He holds out a hand. ]
I'm happy to provoke some thought, if you like.
[ He'll read right here, right now, in front of everyone!!! ]
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and she thinks on a conversation she once had with her uncle when they started calling him heretic too. she'd cautioned him not to let it define him. it's getting easier, day by day, as others shake off conventions and superstitions and edicts. ]
Alright.
[ but not this book. she shelves the book in her hands. and (taking two steps closer to verso to reach it) jasnah selects relic and monument — it had caught her eye earlier. tipping it outward, she offers him one of her published works. ]
Go on, provoke.
no subject
It's not a deterrent, though. Still leaning against the shelf, he makes a show of considering the cover, then flipping it open. Not to brag (definitely to brag), but he's rather a quick reader, and he's flipping the pages before long, eyebrows raised as he reads. Without taking his eyes off of the page, he leans in with a casual, ] Quite a long preface.
[ That's right. He knows the difference between a foreword and a preface. ]
no subject
she doesn't take her eyes off him until the scribes' chattering increases in volume. one wonders whether he's a dignitary from another kingdom. another comments that he's almost too short to be alethi. the third posits that he must be faking it.
verso's quiet critique draws her attention back to him. she snorts derisively. ]
Every word was necessary. Not everyone picks it up with the requisite background information.
[ as if resentful of her own fascination with him, jasnah grabs some reading material for herself and stalks over to a low settee. she settles, straight-backed, and will certainly make him chase her to the couch if he wants to share any further opinions. ]
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He says nothing, though, not even to Jasnah's quick retort-and-retreat. When she settles down on the settee, he does the same, lowering down next to her (with a polite-but-friendly foot or so between them). Although he's sitting beside her, his posture is remarkably looser than hers as he kicks his feet up on a stool and starts reading in earnest. A few minutes stretch into tens of minutes, no sound from Verso save for the semifrequent turning of a page.
It's not quite commentary that he ends up offering, but a faint, under his breath laugh. ]
no subject
after around half an hour, even the trio of scribes tired of the spectacle. they lapsed into a conversation about chasmfiends instead. apparently, one had been spotted between a couple of nearby plateaus.
but jasnah? jasnah fixates. she isn't nervous or insecure about her publication. quite the opposite — she stands by her work. however, it's hard to say how it holds up against what might be rudimentary knowledge in another world. she'd thought herself so clever, once, until wit had pulled back the curtain on the variety of invested arts across the cosmere.
so when he laughs, she flinches. clearing her throat, but not looking up, she softly counters: ]
Find something amusing?
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Verso doesn't look up either, still finishing a paragraph in which Jasnah discusses the finer details of the Dawnchant. He's intelligent enough to understand most of it, aside from some of the more particular jargon that must be unique to this world, although admittedly it's not the sort of work he would ever choose to read on his own. He's reading it because she wrote it, and because she told him to. ]
Nothing.
[ A finished paragraph and another flick of the page with his thumb and index finger. ]
...It's just your writing style.
[ He could explain himself further, but perhaps—perhaps!!!—he is enjoying having her attention for once. ]
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jasnah chews on his answer. there's no question in her mind that her writing style is precise, carefully edited, and pitched to be at least passably accessibly by most scholars. perhaps a touch opaque for juniors just learning to cut their teeth on barlsha lhan. ]
And?
[ she prompts, leaning back into the corner of the settee — folding an elbow against the back cushion and turning her body just so. ]
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aggressively backflips into prose
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tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
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