She gives a short, confident shake of her head. As if to say I will not stain a thing. Then she inhales. A deliberate, meditative breath. The Stormlight in the nearest brazier gutters and dims. When she speaks, a fine, luminous mist escapes her lips: "Hold still."
It's worth noting she can't hold Stormlight as well she once did. Whatever has shifted between her and Ivory, the half-life of Stormlight stored in the body feels shortened. Beyond that, she also can no longer Soulcast at a distance. Contact is required. So she reaches forward and lays three fingers against the crystalline fruit.
One upon a time she would wheedle. Negotiate. Coax the axi into compliance like a diplomat softening a stubborn envoy. She was younger then. Newer to her power. Now she commands change. She presses past the crystal’s insistence on itself, granting it permission to undo its rigid bonds. Her will against the laws of nature.
Change, she thinks. Be lighter. Be less. Be dispersed. Her shoulders roll subtly as her fingertips press harder, as though she might reach into the very lattice and pry it apart. And then...!
A frown catches her expression. She withdraws her hand too too quickly. Stormlight gutters out of her, and she cracks one eye open. If there had been a flaw with the stone, she would have inspected it. Instead, her gaze snaps to Verso. Because, storms, she had been about to burst that crystal into smoke. Hot smoke. Smoke that carried the scent of burning wood and the idea of fire. Almost-too-late does she realize what a terrible trick that would be.
"—No," she murmurs, more to herself than to him.
So, she tries again. The braziers dim again as she draws more Stormlight. And this time she steps closer. Instead of merely touching the fruit with her fingers, she cradles one side — her own hand folding inside his so that the edge of her palm settles against his skin.
Change. Be lighter. Be less. Be FOG instead.
This time the command lands cleanly. At once, the crystal vanishes in a dense, contained burst of mist. A soft concussion as matter sheds its density. Fog pushes outward in a small, humid bloom before rolling down his hand in pale curls. In its wake, a network of fine dew collects along the lines of both their palms.
Unaware of the second-guessing going on internally, Verso assumes at first that she's struggling to soulcast. Her power must be diminished, weaker. He waits patiently, although there's a flicker of concern in his eyes; it'll be very disappointing for her if she fails now. So, when the crystal palafruit disperses into fog, blooming up and out across their cupped palms, he breathes a sigh of relief and smiles.
"Look at you, Knight Radiant," he teases. "You're going to make me jealous."
Not like there's a chance in hell a creature like Ivory would ever bond with him. If they're—understandably—concerned about treachery, surely his very existence must send spren running away, screaming.
Relief and pride mingle on her face. Maybe even more so than showing him, it matters just as much that she's managed it. Jasnah grips his hand — briefly, with a squeeze — before retreating to her desk.
"I wish I knew. Ivory and I have our theories — but it's not as though can draw solid conclusions just yet," she chats openly, eagerly, as she adds another scribbled note to her journal.
"It's only partial, yet. I can't do anything much bigger than," she makes a vague shape with one hand, turning her palm around an invisible spherical shape, suggesting something around the size of a boot or a helm or a book. And there are other deficits, besides, but it's remarkable that she's sharing this much with someone else. In the past, she's guarded her limits (or lack thereof) quite jealously.
"But that particular bit of Soulcasting isn't why I asked you 'round early."
(And, for what it's worth, not ever spren is as wary as Ivory's kind.)
"No?" he asks, trailing behind her to her desk before turning around so that he can look at her while he leans against it. "I thought maybe you just missed me that much."
Mid-scribble, she turns her head to deliver a look. Like maybe she wants to tell him that she doesn't need to fabricate excuses to see him when — if! — she misses him. But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? And while she's quite adept at fooling herself on many a level, she does earnestly try not to lie to herself too too obviously.
So Jasnah's attention shifts to some middle-distance on the desk — and, hey, if Verso cares to peers close enough in the low light of the room, he might catch a familiar oil-like sheen sitting on the edge of a metal plate.
"And I thought," she responds, standing again, "you could try describing to me — in detail — the qualities of a good Bordeaux."
Because you definitely wanna chance drinking made from the same process as that roil of fog and the suspicious bloodstain, right?
"You remembered," he points out, pleased. Then again— "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Your mind is a steel trap." He'd say she probably has a memory like an elephant, but then he might have to explain what an elephant is, and then they'd be here all night before he ever got to try any wine.
"A good Bordeaux—"
Hmm. He closes his eyes, tries to put himself back in those old, worn-out boots of his Expedition uniform. Drinking out of boredom or unhappiness, mostly. Mon ami, sweet Esquie would scold, I told you to stop drinking alone.
"It's dry." Do they use those terms for wine here? "Not too sweet," he clarifies. "Full-bodied. A little astringent, but in a good way." He opens his eyes. "Have you ever had blackcurrant? Tastes like that."
She remembered, yes. Not least of all because she takes the time to pour every new word out of her memory and into a slim notebook. Different, actually, to the one she's presumably been making Soulcasting observations — because she switches to it, now, and jots down his description in shorthand.
"Hm," she shakes her head, "no blackcurrants."
Jasnah pours him a cup from one of the three pitchers that have sat untouched on the desk before now. It's an auburn — very similar to what he drank when they visited the Shattered Plains. She offers it now with what she hopes is a very simply command:
"Drink, and then tell me what you would change about it to get it closer to what one of your Bordeauxs."
Jasnah is truly engaging all of his special interests recently! Music, trains, wine. Carefully, fingers around the rim so as not to warm the drink with his body heat, he takes a sip. Not a large one. Verso doesn't really drink in moderation when he's alone, but he's loath to be a glutton (or worse, a drunkard) in front of Jasnah, so he takes a small, classy, elegant sip instead.
"Hm." Okay, one more sip. Just to get a good baseline to start with.
The auburn's close to real wine, or at least closer than most of the drinks he's tried since arriving on Roshar. It's adjacent to wine, as if wine was shifted a few degrees to the left and turned upside down. Or as if someone tried to recreate wine when only knowing of the concept of it.
What's earthy? Her expression screws into a minor beat of confusion as she tries to guess at its meaning. And simultaneously, just to make well and certain she doesn't accidentally land somewhere musty and rotten, Jasnah pours herself a cup from the same pitcher.
A sip; a frown; an attempt to marry the adjectives he's added with what the wine must become. She doesn't have high expectations for her first try — nor her second, third, or fourth. Jasnah is open to the possibility that this might be a long slog and she may not succeed tonight. But as Zenaz says in Proverbs for Tower and War: it is often said that the best teacher is failure.
Starting with her own cup, she dips a finger into the auburn and — inhale; pause; command — directs the constituent parts of this wine to think of itself as something different. Less sweet, tangier, darker. All the (very subjective) things she's heard him say. And after, she tastes the wine on her finger with a thoughtful pause. A stoic expression.
"It can't be that bad." It's kind of weird to drink something that her finger has been in (thanks, Jasnah), but admittedly, his mouth has been many more questionable places than this, so. He takes a sip.
And turns a strange, pale color. Oh, no, this isn't right at all. It's disgusting. He doesn't want to swallow, but obviously he absolutely cannot do that in front of Jasnah. With great effort, he swallows, looking a little ill.
"...What did you think I meant by earthy, exactly?"
She raises a hand to stop him — honestly, she hadn't intended to inflict it on him until at least the third or fourth iteration! — but there he goes. Taking her cup and drinking from it. Bold, really.
She's well aware that can be exactly that bad — and takes almost a perverse delight in seeing his boldness punished by what she knows is an awful mouthful. Jasnah nearly tells him he doesn't need to spare her feelings, but gets caught up in the question in that follows.
"Earth is soil, yes?" (Thanks, Hoid.) "And most of the soil in Alethkar, if you can call it that, is quite chalky. Bitter."
She holds out her hand — c'mon, give the cup of the experimental stuff back.
Yeah, she can have it back. He still tastes soil on his tongue. With a grimace, he corrects, "Earthy. Like— the way mushrooms taste. Savory. Like wood and pine." Not dirt.
Be a little horrified when she — yep — takes another experimental sip. Familiarizing herself with her failure. Then, instead of trying again on the same cup, she pours the contents into one of the other present pitchers. Empty, purpose-provided for getting rid of bad not-wine. She'd prepared for hardship, it seems.
Jasnah pours a second, control cup of auburn for the next round of experimentation.
"Hm," she tilts the cup, swirling what she's got, and closes her eyes. For focus. "Talk me through it again — from the beginning. Dry, you said. Astringent."
An expectant pause as she listens for her parameters once again.
He gets the sense that he needs to be far more specific. He's been talking about wine using terms that everyone in Lumière would understand, but they're clearly foreign to her. Holding up a hand, as if to stop her from doing any sudden soulcasting:
"It's still sweet. Bittersweet, maybe. Like a particularly tart fruit." Like a blackcurrant, if only he could compare it to that! "It's an intense flavor. Warm and a little smoky. Sort of like if you soaked wood shavings in fruit juice."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's worth noting she can't hold Stormlight as well she once did. Whatever has shifted between her and Ivory, the half-life of Stormlight stored in the body feels shortened. Beyond that, she also can no longer Soulcast at a distance. Contact is required. So she reaches forward and lays three fingers against the crystalline fruit.
One upon a time she would wheedle. Negotiate. Coax the axi into compliance like a diplomat softening a stubborn envoy. She was younger then. Newer to her power. Now she commands change. She presses past the crystal’s insistence on itself, granting it permission to undo its rigid bonds. Her will against the laws of nature.
Change, she thinks. Be lighter. Be less. Be dispersed. Her shoulders roll subtly as her fingertips press harder, as though she might reach into the very lattice and pry it apart. And then...!
A frown catches her expression. She withdraws her hand too too quickly. Stormlight gutters out of her, and she cracks one eye open. If there had been a flaw with the stone, she would have inspected it. Instead, her gaze snaps to Verso. Because, storms, she had been about to burst that crystal into smoke. Hot smoke. Smoke that carried the scent of burning wood and the idea of fire. Almost-too-late does she realize what a terrible trick that would be.
"—No," she murmurs, more to herself than to him.
So, she tries again. The braziers dim again as she draws more Stormlight. And this time she steps closer. Instead of merely touching the fruit with her fingers, she cradles one side — her own hand folding inside his so that the edge of her palm settles against his skin.
Change. Be lighter. Be less. Be FOG instead.
This time the command lands cleanly. At once, the crystal vanishes in a dense, contained burst of mist. A soft concussion as matter sheds its density. Fog pushes outward in a small, humid bloom before rolling down his hand in pale curls. In its wake, a network of fine dew collects along the lines of both their palms.
no subject
"Look at you, Knight Radiant," he teases. "You're going to make me jealous."
Not like there's a chance in hell a creature like Ivory would ever bond with him. If they're—understandably—concerned about treachery, surely his very existence must send spren running away, screaming.
"—What changed?"
no subject
"I wish I knew. Ivory and I have our theories — but it's not as though can draw solid conclusions just yet," she chats openly, eagerly, as she adds another scribbled note to her journal.
"It's only partial, yet. I can't do anything much bigger than," she makes a vague shape with one hand, turning her palm around an invisible spherical shape, suggesting something around the size of a boot or a helm or a book. And there are other deficits, besides, but it's remarkable that she's sharing this much with someone else. In the past, she's guarded her limits (or lack thereof) quite jealously.
"But that particular bit of Soulcasting isn't why I asked you 'round early."
(And, for what it's worth, not ever spren is as wary as Ivory's kind.)
no subject
He smiles. Annoying.
no subject
So Jasnah's attention shifts to some middle-distance on the desk — and, hey, if Verso cares to peers close enough in the low light of the room, he might catch a familiar oil-like sheen sitting on the edge of a metal plate.
"And I thought," she responds, standing again, "you could try describing to me — in detail — the qualities of a good Bordeaux."
Because you definitely wanna chance drinking made from the same process as that roil of fog and the suspicious bloodstain, right?
no subject
"A good Bordeaux—"
Hmm. He closes his eyes, tries to put himself back in those old, worn-out boots of his Expedition uniform. Drinking out of boredom or unhappiness, mostly. Mon ami, sweet Esquie would scold, I told you to stop drinking alone.
"It's dry." Do they use those terms for wine here? "Not too sweet," he clarifies. "Full-bodied. A little astringent, but in a good way." He opens his eyes. "Have you ever had blackcurrant? Tastes like that."
no subject
"Hm," she shakes her head, "no blackcurrants."
Jasnah pours him a cup from one of the three pitchers that have sat untouched on the desk before now. It's an auburn — very similar to what he drank when they visited the Shattered Plains. She offers it now with what she hopes is a very simply command:
"Drink, and then tell me what you would change about it to get it closer to what one of your Bordeauxs."
no subject
"Hm." Okay, one more sip. Just to get a good baseline to start with.
The auburn's close to real wine, or at least closer than most of the drinks he's tried since arriving on Roshar. It's adjacent to wine, as if wine was shifted a few degrees to the left and turned upside down. Or as if someone tried to recreate wine when only knowing of the concept of it.
"It should be tangier. Darker. A bit earthy."
no subject
A sip; a frown; an attempt to marry the adjectives he's added with what the wine must become. She doesn't have high expectations for her first try — nor her second, third, or fourth. Jasnah is open to the possibility that this might be a long slog and she may not succeed tonight. But as Zenaz says in Proverbs for Tower and War: it is often said that the best teacher is failure.
Starting with her own cup, she dips a finger into the auburn and — inhale; pause; command — directs the constituent parts of this wine to think of itself as something different. Less sweet, tangier, darker. All the (very subjective) things she's heard him say. And after, she tastes the wine on her finger with a thoughtful pause. A stoic expression.
And then quickly shakes her head.
"Storms, that can't be right. It's awful."
no subject
And turns a strange, pale color. Oh, no, this isn't right at all. It's disgusting. He doesn't want to swallow, but obviously he absolutely cannot do that in front of Jasnah. With great effort, he swallows, looking a little ill.
"...What did you think I meant by earthy, exactly?"
no subject
She's well aware that can be exactly that bad — and takes almost a perverse delight in seeing his boldness punished by what she knows is an awful mouthful. Jasnah nearly tells him he doesn't need to spare her feelings, but gets caught up in the question in that follows.
"Earth is soil, yes?" (Thanks, Hoid.) "And most of the soil in Alethkar, if you can call it that, is quite chalky. Bitter."
She holds out her hand — c'mon, give the cup of the experimental stuff back.
no subject
no subject
Jasnah pours a second, control cup of auburn for the next round of experimentation.
"Hm," she tilts the cup, swirling what she's got, and closes her eyes. For focus. "Talk me through it again — from the beginning. Dry, you said. Astringent."
An expectant pause as she listens for her parameters once again.
no subject
He gets the sense that he needs to be far more specific. He's been talking about wine using terms that everyone in Lumière would understand, but they're clearly foreign to her. Holding up a hand, as if to stop her from doing any sudden soulcasting:
"It's still sweet. Bittersweet, maybe. Like a particularly tart fruit." Like a blackcurrant, if only he could compare it to that! "It's an intense flavor. Warm and a little smoky. Sort of like if you soaked wood shavings in fruit juice."
... "But not literally like that."