[ 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. ]
[ Ah, he's very much enjoying this. Verso sets the book down in his lap and regards her with a mild, pleasant sort of look. ]
It's... meticulous. Brutally efficient.
[ Not a word that doesn't need to be there, nor one used when another word would be preferable. No flowery or meandering language. Entirely different to the prose he's accustomed to reading. ]
her gaze lingers on him for a beat — assessing, not indulgent. ]
Precision spares the reader confusion. Ornamentation serves the author, not the argument.
[ she pauses, surprised to find herself actually considering his words rather than dismissing them. it's a practical kind of reflection — a scholar's instinct, not vanity. she reviews her tone, her phrasing, the deliberate cadence of her essays. there's a certain satisfaction in realizing he's not wrong. and if he's not wrong, then perhaps he's sincere.
she closes her book gently, gloved thumb resting on the spine. ]
Still, I'm gratified you can hear me even in my footnotes.
[ a small flicker at the corner of her mouth — not quite a smile, but enough to betray that the exchange has pleased her more than she intends to show. something not-quite-but-close-to trust. ]
[ Infinitely observant, the flicker does not go unnoted. She's pleased with him, or at least not displeased, which is beginning to seem like all he may be able to hope for. A flash of a memory, Clea rolling her eyes—what, do you want a pat on the head and one of the dog's biscuits?
Playfully: ] Oh, especially the footnotes.
[ He gestures to the book in her lap with a jerk of his chin. ]
[ she turns the copy of introspections in her lap. it's a bit vague and open-ended, even for advanced study, but perhaps it caught her eye because of him. because what effect might a wholly new world have on someone so far from home. ]
It's — it's about change.
[ she taps a single nail against the spine. there's no harm in asking, she supposes. ]
Change in one's beliefs, or tastes, or behaviors. Based on when their environment changes. Like...like a sailor who hates palafruit until an extended stay in a friendly shipping city with a great deal of palafruit export makes him change his mind. It made me wonder what changes you might experience, given time.
[ okay, well, she didn't really ask anything in the end. ]
[ Even when she's thinking of him, it has the distinct air of picturing him as an insect under a microscope. A different man might find this off-putting, but Verso finds it— charming, in its own way. It's endearing in its dedication to academia, and although it does make him wonder if his only point of interest for her is his foreignness, it's nice to be interesting at all. ]
I think I've experienced some already.
[ Life in his own world had been terribly dreary. Existence at all had felt like an unforgivable sin, like he was poisoning the world just by being in it. Endless suffering, all to maintain a world in which he existed—it would have been better, kinder, if it were all gone. There's no pain in oblivion.
This world doesn't have that problem. It's far from perfect, but it's beyond his wildest dreams regardless. ]
[ storms, she nearly asks. the question leadens the tip of her tongue — dragging the words back into her throat, down beneath her ribs, before she manages to say them aloud: what changes have you felt? when did you notice them? it isn't that she fears being nosy; rather, she baulks at the prospect of what she might learn, live. maybe she'll ask him to write it down for her, later. something she can ruminate on. read and reread. something she doesn't have to react to in the moment.
jasnah clears her throat, shakes her head, and shelves her sentiment for now. instead, she leans forward just enough to tap his copy of relic and monument. ]
We can translate it, now. The Dawnchant. That book is already outdated on a number of topics.
[ when in doubt — when uncomfortable with reality — retreat to academia. that has always been her way, ever since her childhood illness. turn to the things you can control; don't let anyone suspect you might be losing control of others. ]
[ It feels a bit like being whipped around, the way she expresses interest in him one moment and abruptly changes the subject the next. No, more than being whipped around; it's like being blindfolded, turned in circles, and then set loose. Dizzying.
He tries to keep up regardless, still adept at pleasant conversation even if his more advanced social skills may have eroded over time. ]
That's the second outdated book you've given me. [ She'd said the history book was outdated, too! ] I'm starting to think I should stick to the source herself.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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!!! ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
It's... meticulous. Brutally efficient.
[ Not a word that doesn't need to be there, nor one used when another word would be preferable. No flowery or meandering language. Entirely different to the prose he's accustomed to reading. ]
It's as if your voice is leaping off the page.
[ 'You write how you talk,' essentially. ]
no subject
her gaze lingers on him for a beat — assessing, not indulgent. ]
Precision spares the reader confusion. Ornamentation serves the author, not the argument.
[ she pauses, surprised to find herself actually considering his words rather than dismissing them. it's a practical kind of reflection — a scholar's instinct, not vanity. she reviews her tone, her phrasing, the deliberate cadence of her essays. there's a certain satisfaction in realizing he's not wrong. and if he's not wrong, then perhaps he's sincere.
she closes her book gently, gloved thumb resting on the spine. ]
Still, I'm gratified you can hear me even in my footnotes.
[ a small flicker at the corner of her mouth — not quite a smile, but enough to betray that the exchange has pleased her more than she intends to show. something not-quite-but-close-to trust. ]
no subject
Playfully: ] Oh, especially the footnotes.
[ He gestures to the book in her lap with a jerk of his chin. ]
You already know what mine's about. What's yours?
no subject
It's — it's about change.
[ she taps a single nail against the spine. there's no harm in asking, she supposes. ]
Change in one's beliefs, or tastes, or behaviors. Based on when their environment changes. Like...like a sailor who hates palafruit until an extended stay in a friendly shipping city with a great deal of palafruit export makes him change his mind. It made me wonder what changes you might experience, given time.
[ okay, well, she didn't really ask anything in the end. ]
no subject
I think I've experienced some already.
[ Life in his own world had been terribly dreary. Existence at all had felt like an unforgivable sin, like he was poisoning the world just by being in it. Endless suffering, all to maintain a world in which he existed—it would have been better, kinder, if it were all gone. There's no pain in oblivion.
This world doesn't have that problem. It's far from perfect, but it's beyond his wildest dreams regardless. ]
no subject
jasnah clears her throat, shakes her head, and shelves her sentiment for now. instead, she leans forward just enough to tap his copy of relic and monument. ]
We can translate it, now. The Dawnchant. That book is already outdated on a number of topics.
[ when in doubt — when uncomfortable with reality — retreat to academia. that has always been her way, ever since her childhood illness. turn to the things you can control; don't let anyone suspect you might be losing control of others. ]
no subject
He tries to keep up regardless, still adept at pleasant conversation even if his more advanced social skills may have eroded over time. ]
That's the second outdated book you've given me. [ She'd said the history book was outdated, too! ] I'm starting to think I should stick to the source herself.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
aggressively backflips into prose
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...