For the record, Verso had meant that he'd ask questions and Jasnah would share things, not the other way around. He prefers things that way. He's a great active listener. Gives his full attention, nods along, responds thoughtfully. He's a lot less skilled at sharing things about himself, primarily because it feels like there isn't much he can share that isn't an admission of something horrible in some way. His whole life is something horrible.
He is skilled at equivocating, though. "You tell me," he volleys back, fully aware that he's giving her the opportunity to say something scathing if she wishes. "What do you think?"
She raises a finger. Just one, canted to the left and static. The suggestion of a wagged finger. Verso — she doesn't say his name, not again, not so soon. But the implication is thick in the way she fixes him in her gaze. He can't suggest they should share with one another and then dance so blatantly out from under the executioner's sword.
"Don't be a coward," Jasnah warns him. "It's unbecoming."
And then, lips quirking, she drops her hand to the table and reaches for a pen. Sliding a journal from past her elbow, she scribbles a sentence. She tears the page. She folds it crisply.
"I've written down what I think. You can read it if you answer first."
She's no fool. She may not have caught every implication and hope hidden behind Verso's banter, but she's learned enough. Her opinion of him, committed to ink, will be worth something.
Oh—she's very, very right. Verso would have clamored for anyone's opinion of him, but Jasnah's is certainly more valuable than gold. She's exceptionally discerning, hypercritical, with unrelenting standards. Unlike others might do—like Verso would absolutely do—she won't soften the edges of her less flattering opinions.
Ah, merde. He's like an animal caught in a trap, her honest opinion the bait.
With a shrug of acquiescence, he admits, more bitterly than he would like, "A long time ago. Not anymore."
His honesty eases something in her jaw — a tension she didn't realize she was holding. It's minor and it's silent, but the observant eye will see the direct cause-and-effect between his honesty (bitter though it was) and her relief. Maybe it's because Wit was mentioned earlier, and she remembered all over again the compulsive lengths he would go to simply to circumvent her whenever she asked for the truth. He lied like he breathed. Even when he didn't want to.
"Acceptable."
She slides the folded paper across the wooden tabletop — real wood, judging by the grain, not soulcast! — and drums her gloved fingers three times on the message before relinquishing it entirely.
Whenever he does read it — now or later — it captures her opinion in a scant few lines and exceptional penmanship:
VERSO—
I believe you left someone behind but whoever it was isn't waiting on your return. And you dodge the truth about it like man who knows it condemns him.
Of course he reads it now, like a child who can't wait to open his birthday present, if said birthday present also caused some amount of anxiety. His eyes skim over the words quickly, expression opaque. Then he refolds the paper along the neat, crisp lines she'd made and slides it into his pocket.
Truthfully, he'd been expecting something more along the lines of I think you left many broken hearts in your wake, you player, you. This hits a bit more close to home than that.
"I was terrible for her," he says, because he can't quite bring himself to give Julie any of the blame for what transpired. He'd tried to, back when it had first happened. I didn't mean to turned quickly to you made me do this. Forcibly lighthearted: "See? We have so much in common. Both of us the casualties of failed romance."
Jasnah possesses exactly enough audacity to watch Verso closely as he reads. Her mind does unkind things as she does so, letting her imagine whether Wit had looked similarly inscrutable when he'd read the letter she'd left for him. Her assessments then had been a measure more unkind than they are now, but his reply remains burned in her memory: You are right, and your letter to me was — characteristically — full of wisdom and excellent deductions.
One last reminder that single-minded truth might be just as hurtful as multi-headed lies. She leans her elbow on the table and, growing casual, tucks her chin against the leather palm of her glove.
"So much in common."
She echoes. But she isn't talking about him and her. The realization sets off alarm bells at the base of her skull.
"...Do you actually enjoy those?" Jasnah tips her chin toward the pile of romance novels — the origin of this conversation. It's a soft adjustment of the topic at hand, but it's still a question. After all, he's the one who said they should ask questions and share answers.
"I didn't have much in the way of reading material before," he says before he remembers not to. Ah, well. Maybe she'll simply assume Lumière is an island of illiterate idiots. "I think I would be glad to read a dictionary at this point." Or maybe a thesaurus. Hell, he'd take a wordsearch.
But that isn't answering the question, exactly. She'd asked if he enjoyed reading these overwrought love stories, not just if he tolerated it. It isn't his favorite genre of book—that honor goes to spun yarns of wondrous places and heart-racing adventure—but there's certainly value to be had in it regardless. Admittedly, some romance books are a little more literary than others, but there's a place for tawdry tales of quivering and trembling and throbbing, too. (Or whichever naughty adjectives an author might be inclined to use.)
He regards the stack for a moment, then: "Love is at the soul of all great art, one way or another." Not necessarily romantic love. The song he'd written for Alicia comes to mind. "This genre just... distills it."
So much in common indeed. How in damnation did she land herself in this position once again? Sat beside a slippery man, dressed in black, waxing poetic about art. It ought to be enough to set her teeth on edge, only...
Only she deeply appreciates the way he loops back to the question and answers it in earnest. Again, she bestows her approval with the smallest softening of her shoulders. It's almost as though instead of praise-filled words or pats on the head, she lets him know he's doing a good job by the adjustments in her posture. Not that she's relaxing consciously — not at all. It's simply the consequences of her easy, piqued curiosity. Even when he's letting things slip that don't quite add up. She files those away for later.
Jasnah pushes her luck with another question, never mind how many she likely owes him by now: "If love is the soul of great art, then what does its absence produce? Mediocrity?"
Storms, Wit would be on his knees if he'd ever managed to coax her into discussing the nature of art with him. Too bad, so sad.
"No," he answers, only definitive instead of prevaricatory when ruminating on the essence of good art. If the absence of love were to make art poor quality, then his poetry would be very shoddy indeed. It's not love's absence that makes his poetry questionable; it's that he rhymes 'torment' with 'lament'.
Verso leans forward a little more, visibly more attuned to this topic in conversation than he's ever been before. "The absence of something is still about that something. You can't miss something without first understanding what it is you're missing." That is to say— art about being loveless still has love at the soul of it.
"It's like when a composition has an unresolved cadence. You feel the unplayed chord's presence all the more for the lack of it."
...It is a thing of beauty to watch a person — any person — engage earnestly and enthusiastically on a topic they love. In that regard, she imagines Verso might actually be correct: love is the soul of great art, even when that art is rhetorical argument.
But that doesn't mean she can't flip any conversation on its head and turn it into an oral exam. Jasnah's composure relaxes to the point of crossing one leg over the other, body leaning against the desk. She points a finger down at the tabletop, tapping it three times.
"Consider the statement: all great art is hated. The only way to create something that nobody hates is to ensure that it can't be loved either. Do you agree?"
—Verso laughs. How fucking familiar this all feels. Like being quizzed over Steak au Poivre at the dinner table, his mother delighting at his curated answers while his father looked on with a raised brow. Clea simmering with annoyance at his eagerness to please, Alicia too young to take part, still just a baby.
"I wasn't aware there was going to be a test," he quips, not unkindly.
It does take him a moment to answer, although it's only because he's turning her question over in his mind, genuinely considering it. God, it's been an eon since he's had a real intellectual conversation. Monoco is as scholarly as a Gestral will ever be, but he's still a Gestral at heart, and their conversations had ended in playful roughhousing more often than not. And Esquie— well, Esquie was always more interested in hosting mock-weddings for his pet rocks.
"Your question presupposes that love and hatred are opposites," he finally says, "but they're... complementary. You can feel both in tandem." He thinks of Renoir. Feels burning antipathy, feels the childlike urge to run to his Papa and be comforted by a paternal hand on the shoulder.
The crooked angle of her smile suggests something along the lines of: silly Verso, there was always going to be a test. It's not hard to see Jasnah's pedagogical philosophy unfold like an anvil — and perhaps the next time he sees Shallan Davar, the redhead who joined them at the crossing, Verso will feel a pang of sympathy for the young woman who had apparently sought Jasnah out as a teacher.
(Mind you, the girl's original motive was to steal from Jasnah — but we all have our flaws.)
To her credit, she also takes the time to consider their conversation with care and respect. She doesn't agree. Because, yes, she does presuppose them as opposites. Her boundaries are perhaps more clearly drawn between these concepts — provided she doesn't examine too closely some of her foundational relationships. Willfully, she avoids that bramble path.
Instead: "Do you believe it's possible to create art — story, song, sketch — that is universally loved?" A pause, because she knows she's straying into thought-experiment territory. "Hypothetically."
It is a thought experiment, but such things don't typically bother Verso. He once used to enjoy lofty conversation, always more enthused by the prospect of using his imagination than of strictly relying on fact. The same way he'd always preferred to paint the fantastical, thinking up things that didn't yet exist but perhaps someday could, rather than the realistic portraits his Maman tended towards.
It's a rather apt thought experiment, too. Feels less hypothetical than she portrays it to be.
"I think," he says, tapping his stack of books idly, "that's putting quite a lot of pressure on a creation to achieve perfection." Then, glancing up at her, he lobs the question back. "What do you think?"
"Perfection is a false premise. Expectations are not."
Expectations are heavy, subjective, and can weigh a person down if they don't understand how best to bear them. Just as they had briefly discussed duty earlier this conversation, Jasnah has felt the boulder-like burden of expectation. She has felt it as a scholar, rather than as an artist.
But like in art, the scholarship she has undertaken reveals things about her. Her limitations, her assumptions, her vanities. Beyond the expectation to produce something worth the time it took, there is an expectation that one buries a seed of themselves in their work.
Then, because he asked — because he dared — she gives him the full turn of the blade:
"...So. I think the value of a creation lies not in its perfection, but in the truths it cannot help but expose about its maker."
A faint tilt of her head.
"And that exposure makes some people very...uncomfortable.”
"I've heard that one before," he says, recalling countless lectures on just this. You'll never be a true artist if there's always a mask between you and the viewer, especially when the viewer is you.
Verso has already discussed the importance of authenticity in art at length—and argued back a million times; I am being authentic—so he doesn't linger on the topic for too long. Back to mere 'conversation' instead, asking questions about Jasnah and getting answers.
"You never answered your own question." A tilt of his head toward the book. "What do you think about romance novels?"
Once upon a time — for a very brief phase, in her twenties — Jasnah had wondered whether there wasn't something wrong with her. Her convictions had not always been so iron-clad. Her preferences had not always been so...understood. There was a period, however short, where she'd simply devoured romances like this. Searching for something, anything, that would inspire the delight and bloodrush she'd been assured was natural, easy, normal.
— And maybe romance novels don't make the best, most realistic manuals, but Jasnah did enjoy the tension and rapport-building. Two characters, circling each other with inevitable weight. When trust blossomed; when respect solidified; when they learned each other's minds as prelude to their bodies. Somehow, that expectation never translated well to any of her, ah, experimentation. Man or woman, the emotional connections she chased always seemed to pale in comparison to her desires. And, subsequently, the physical connection had no chance. The closest she'd ever come to something good enough...
Well. As she'd said. They'd been terrible for one another.
All of this to say Jasnah struggles with just how to formulate her answer.
"The stories can be so — warm and beautiful. Or devastating and passionate." She exhales, deflating. "But ultimately, I fear they set their readers up for disappointment."
It's not the warmth and beauty or devastating passion that's unrealistic about these stories, in his opinion. Verso has felt all of the above in spades; he's felt what it's like to hold the reassuring hand of someone who loves you, to be so mutually overcome with wanting that you tumble into bed with your clothes still half-on, impatient in the excitement. The disappointment only comes in finding that, despite many authors' vehement insistence to the contrary, there are some things love cannot conquer.
"Oh, I see," he says, giving her a Look™ like he's got her number. "You're one of those types. Disillusioned by love, is that it?"
As if he isn't the same. It's different, though—he's disillusioned by everything. Being loved by Julie had been a temporary and delusional reprieve from cold, hard reality. He'd just been too ignorant to realize it at the time.
Leaning back, he crosses his arms over his chest. "What did he do? Forget your birthday? Flirt with a friend?" He scrunches up his nose and adds, joking, "Slobbery kisser?"
Jasnah shakes her head. Disillusioned by love? Not at all. Hers is a life filled with love, even if its species might be unrecognizable by most. Her love for her family is fierce and deep to her bones. Her love for her people — for her entire planet — is similar. She even loved Wit, in her way. As he loved her in his.
No, Jasnah is disillusioned by sex. How frustrating, for her, that a 'tumble into bed' was most often painted as the apex of that emotion. The goal, the prize, the all-important consummation. When Jasnah became a Knight Radiant, first among her oaths was a terribly simple one: journey before destination. She feels that way about love, too.
Luckily, she never has to clarify her headshake. Verso steams onward, painting a very different kind of question. And, with a wrinkle of her nose, she wonders how she let the conversation slink shamefully back to her ex.
"He lied one time too many."
She could have stomached some dishonesty. But ultimately, a ten-thousand year old creature starts to see mortals less like partners and more like playthings. Pieces on the board.
"Ah," is all Verso says on that topic. Better not pipe up with did you ever think that maybe he had his reasons—
No, he keeps his tone and posture undefensive and unbothered. If he has opinions on the sometimes necessity of lying, he doesn't share them, instead gliding right on past the comment. As he always has with thoughts and feelings that others might not approve of.
Reassuring: "Well, you won't be disappointed forever." Despite everything, Verso does still believe in love. It's just better suited for other people rather than himself. He's too liable to make a mess of it. "Surely you have dozens of suitors eager to change your tune."
This, for once, is not petty flattery. She's royalty, pleasing to look at, rousing to talk to. If anything, he's surprised she ever made time for him at all.
Jasnah, meanwhile, does bristle and show a twinge of defensiveness. Who is he to say she's disappointed? Okay, sure, she was briefly disappointed. But she's so over her ex-boyfriend. So entirely completely over him. She, like, barely thinks of him anymore. Right?
Right...? — But then Verso says something about dozens of suitors and Jasnah snorts a derisive laugh. With any luck, she's frightened off any serious suitors years ago.
"Come, now. Surely there are more interesting topics to discuss. Flora? Fauna? Lumière's political system?"
Well, clearly he's the only one here who still believes in romance! He raises his eyebrows, but again says nothing. Making people feel better is sort of his thing, but he doubts Jasnah would respond well to his reassurances that she'll one day love again. Seems like the break-up is still... fresh.
So:
"I could tell you about the Gestrals. Fascinating little wooden creatures that live on the Continent."
Although she clearly misheard him, Jasnah doesn't hesitate to pick her pen up once more. She writes a tidy, shorthand header in her notebook. Oh, yes, she absolutely will be taking notes.
Verso's mouth twitches with pleasure. It's nice to have someone's full attention like this, even if it is only because of the stories he can tell instead of anything about him.
"Wooden," he corrects, lighting up a little under her interest, not unlike the way he'd blossomed while showing that scribe girl to waltz. "Imagine a poseable art mannequin, with a featureless mask for a face and bristle-like hair—"
He gestures above his own head, as if showing how their brush-heads stick straight up.
"They have their own culture and village, and they speak their own Gestral language. Although they can be taught the human language by a dedicated enough teacher." Ahem.
Her pen scratches demonstrate her active listening. Gentle, sloping characters and symbols — not all of them sourced in the Alethi women's script, but rather a stenographic system of her own invention. A way to take notes quickly, with the added benefit of being legible to only her.
Wooden — hmm! Her brows raise, but her eyes don't lift from the paper. His description of the Gestrals makes Jasnah half-want to sit Shallan down and have her sketch what he explains. Or maybe if she asked him, he'd...
Oh. Fuck. He'd been so eager to share knowledge that Jasnah might find interesting that he hadn't considered that it would contradict what he's already shared with her.
"Uh, no," he says, lightly, casually. "On the Continent, as I said." And he doesn't add anything beyond that, because he has the right to avoid self-incrimination.
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He is skilled at equivocating, though. "You tell me," he volleys back, fully aware that he's giving her the opportunity to say something scathing if she wishes. "What do you think?"
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"Don't be a coward," Jasnah warns him. "It's unbecoming."
And then, lips quirking, she drops her hand to the table and reaches for a pen. Sliding a journal from past her elbow, she scribbles a sentence. She tears the page. She folds it crisply.
"I've written down what I think. You can read it if you answer first."
She's no fool. She may not have caught every implication and hope hidden behind Verso's banter, but she's learned enough. Her opinion of him, committed to ink, will be worth something.
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Ah, merde. He's like an animal caught in a trap, her honest opinion the bait.
With a shrug of acquiescence, he admits, more bitterly than he would like, "A long time ago. Not anymore."
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"Acceptable."
She slides the folded paper across the wooden tabletop — real wood, judging by the grain, not soulcast! — and drums her gloved fingers three times on the message before relinquishing it entirely.
Whenever he does read it — now or later — it captures her opinion in a scant few lines and exceptional penmanship:
VERSO—
I believe you left someone behind but whoever it was isn't waiting on your return. And you dodge the truth about it like man who knows it condemns him.
J.
...She'd like to think she gets partial marks.
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Truthfully, he'd been expecting something more along the lines of I think you left many broken hearts in your wake, you player, you. This hits a bit more close to home than that.
"I was terrible for her," he says, because he can't quite bring himself to give Julie any of the blame for what transpired. He'd tried to, back when it had first happened. I didn't mean to turned quickly to you made me do this. Forcibly lighthearted: "See? We have so much in common. Both of us the casualties of failed romance."
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One last reminder that single-minded truth might be just as hurtful as multi-headed lies. She leans her elbow on the table and, growing casual, tucks her chin against the leather palm of her glove.
"So much in common."
She echoes. But she isn't talking about him and her. The realization sets off alarm bells at the base of her skull.
"...Do you actually enjoy those?" Jasnah tips her chin toward the pile of romance novels — the origin of this conversation. It's a soft adjustment of the topic at hand, but it's still a question. After all, he's the one who said they should ask questions and share answers.
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But that isn't answering the question, exactly. She'd asked if he enjoyed reading these overwrought love stories, not just if he tolerated it. It isn't his favorite genre of book—that honor goes to spun yarns of wondrous places and heart-racing adventure—but there's certainly value to be had in it regardless. Admittedly, some romance books are a little more literary than others, but there's a place for tawdry tales of quivering and trembling and throbbing, too. (Or whichever naughty adjectives an author might be inclined to use.)
He regards the stack for a moment, then: "Love is at the soul of all great art, one way or another." Not necessarily romantic love. The song he'd written for Alicia comes to mind. "This genre just... distills it."
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Only she deeply appreciates the way he loops back to the question and answers it in earnest. Again, she bestows her approval with the smallest softening of her shoulders. It's almost as though instead of praise-filled words or pats on the head, she lets him know he's doing a good job by the adjustments in her posture. Not that she's relaxing consciously — not at all. It's simply the consequences of her easy, piqued curiosity. Even when he's letting things slip that don't quite add up. She files those away for later.
Jasnah pushes her luck with another question, never mind how many she likely owes him by now: "If love is the soul of great art, then what does its absence produce? Mediocrity?"
Storms, Wit would be on his knees if he'd ever managed to coax her into discussing the nature of art with him. Too bad, so sad.
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Verso leans forward a little more, visibly more attuned to this topic in conversation than he's ever been before. "The absence of something is still about that something. You can't miss something without first understanding what it is you're missing." That is to say— art about being loveless still has love at the soul of it.
"It's like when a composition has an unresolved cadence. You feel the unplayed chord's presence all the more for the lack of it."
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But that doesn't mean she can't flip any conversation on its head and turn it into an oral exam. Jasnah's composure relaxes to the point of crossing one leg over the other, body leaning against the desk. She points a finger down at the tabletop, tapping it three times.
"Consider the statement: all great art is hated. The only way to create something that nobody hates is to ensure that it can't be loved either. Do you agree?"
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"I wasn't aware there was going to be a test," he quips, not unkindly.
It does take him a moment to answer, although it's only because he's turning her question over in his mind, genuinely considering it. God, it's been an eon since he's had a real intellectual conversation. Monoco is as scholarly as a Gestral will ever be, but he's still a Gestral at heart, and their conversations had ended in playful roughhousing more often than not. And Esquie— well, Esquie was always more interested in hosting mock-weddings for his pet rocks.
"Your question presupposes that love and hatred are opposites," he finally says, "but they're... complementary. You can feel both in tandem." He thinks of Renoir. Feels burning antipathy, feels the childlike urge to run to his Papa and be comforted by a paternal hand on the shoulder.
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(Mind you, the girl's original motive was to steal from Jasnah — but we all have our flaws.)
To her credit, she also takes the time to consider their conversation with care and respect. She doesn't agree. Because, yes, she does presuppose them as opposites. Her boundaries are perhaps more clearly drawn between these concepts — provided she doesn't examine too closely some of her foundational relationships. Willfully, she avoids that bramble path.
Instead: "Do you believe it's possible to create art — story, song, sketch — that is universally loved?" A pause, because she knows she's straying into thought-experiment territory. "Hypothetically."
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It's a rather apt thought experiment, too. Feels less hypothetical than she portrays it to be.
"I think," he says, tapping his stack of books idly, "that's putting quite a lot of pressure on a creation to achieve perfection." Then, glancing up at her, he lobs the question back. "What do you think?"
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Expectations are heavy, subjective, and can weigh a person down if they don't understand how best to bear them. Just as they had briefly discussed duty earlier this conversation, Jasnah has felt the boulder-like burden of expectation. She has felt it as a scholar, rather than as an artist.
But like in art, the scholarship she has undertaken reveals things about her. Her limitations, her assumptions, her vanities. Beyond the expectation to produce something worth the time it took, there is an expectation that one buries a seed of themselves in their work.
Then, because he asked — because he dared — she gives him the full turn of the blade:
"...So. I think the value of a creation lies not in its perfection, but in the truths it cannot help but expose about its maker."
A faint tilt of her head.
"And that exposure makes some people very...uncomfortable.”
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Verso has already discussed the importance of authenticity in art at length—and argued back a million times; I am being authentic—so he doesn't linger on the topic for too long. Back to mere 'conversation' instead, asking questions about Jasnah and getting answers.
"You never answered your own question." A tilt of his head toward the book. "What do you think about romance novels?"
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— And maybe romance novels don't make the best, most realistic manuals, but Jasnah did enjoy the tension and rapport-building. Two characters, circling each other with inevitable weight. When trust blossomed; when respect solidified; when they learned each other's minds as prelude to their bodies. Somehow, that expectation never translated well to any of her, ah, experimentation. Man or woman, the emotional connections she chased always seemed to pale in comparison to her desires. And, subsequently, the physical connection had no chance. The closest she'd ever come to something good enough...
Well. As she'd said. They'd been terrible for one another.
All of this to say Jasnah struggles with just how to formulate her answer.
"The stories can be so — warm and beautiful. Or devastating and passionate." She exhales, deflating. "But ultimately, I fear they set their readers up for disappointment."
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"Oh, I see," he says, giving her a Look™ like he's got her number. "You're one of those types. Disillusioned by love, is that it?"
As if he isn't the same. It's different, though—he's disillusioned by everything. Being loved by Julie had been a temporary and delusional reprieve from cold, hard reality. He'd just been too ignorant to realize it at the time.
Leaning back, he crosses his arms over his chest. "What did he do? Forget your birthday? Flirt with a friend?" He scrunches up his nose and adds, joking, "Slobbery kisser?"
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No, Jasnah is disillusioned by sex. How frustrating, for her, that a 'tumble into bed' was most often painted as the apex of that emotion. The goal, the prize, the all-important consummation. When Jasnah became a Knight Radiant, first among her oaths was a terribly simple one: journey before destination. She feels that way about love, too.
Luckily, she never has to clarify her headshake. Verso steams onward, painting a very different kind of question. And, with a wrinkle of her nose, she wonders how she let the conversation slink shamefully back to her ex.
"He lied one time too many."
She could have stomached some dishonesty. But ultimately, a ten-thousand year old creature starts to see mortals less like partners and more like playthings. Pieces on the board.
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No, he keeps his tone and posture undefensive and unbothered. If he has opinions on the sometimes necessity of lying, he doesn't share them, instead gliding right on past the comment. As he always has with thoughts and feelings that others might not approve of.
Reassuring: "Well, you won't be disappointed forever." Despite everything, Verso does still believe in love. It's just better suited for other people rather than himself. He's too liable to make a mess of it. "Surely you have dozens of suitors eager to change your tune."
This, for once, is not petty flattery. She's royalty, pleasing to look at, rousing to talk to. If anything, he's surprised she ever made time for him at all.
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Right...? — But then Verso says something about dozens of suitors and Jasnah snorts a derisive laugh. With any luck, she's frightened off any serious suitors years ago.
"Come, now. Surely there are more interesting topics to discuss. Flora? Fauna? Lumière's political system?"
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So:
"I could tell you about the Gestrals. Fascinating little wooden creatures that live on the Continent."
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Although she clearly misheard him, Jasnah doesn't hesitate to pick her pen up once more. She writes a tidy, shorthand header in her notebook. Oh, yes, she absolutely will be taking notes.
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"Wooden," he corrects, lighting up a little under her interest, not unlike the way he'd blossomed while showing that scribe girl to waltz. "Imagine a poseable art mannequin, with a featureless mask for a face and bristle-like hair—"
He gestures above his own head, as if showing how their brush-heads stick straight up.
"They have their own culture and village, and they speak their own Gestral language. Although they can be taught the human language by a dedicated enough teacher." Ahem.
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Wooden — hmm! Her brows raise, but her eyes don't lift from the paper. His description of the Gestrals makes Jasnah half-want to sit Shallan down and have her sketch what he explains. Or maybe if she asked him, he'd...
Wait. A tilted frown.
"Is their village within the city?"
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"Uh, no," he says, lightly, casually. "On the Continent, as I said." And he doesn't add anything beyond that, because he has the right to avoid self-incrimination.
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tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
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