[The house is an eyesore and smells of mold. It's why Paul put in this effort to make it less so, at least in one room, clinging to rules of hospitality in a way he finds vaguely pathetic now that Palamedes is actually here to see it. At least he doesn't say anything about it.
There's a purpose to the table beyond the mugs, at least. Paul shrugs off the blanket, revealing the sheathed knife strapped to his wrist, and he picks the fastening of it apart before he sets it next to the teapot. There's a deliberate telegraphing of motion as he does it, the air of a formal gesture.
Paul imagines a life entombed, and wonders what resource the Sixth has that ties its people to such a hostile world. What do they have in their archives? (The intensity of Palamedes' preparation, on the other hand, only registers as something that makes sense, another point of near-familiarity. How else do you produce a human being?)]
No windows, but you talk to other Houses enough to have a postal system. [A better topic. He rubs at his bruise-circled wrist, then very carefully lifts the teapot to pour into Palamedes' mug.] I suppose there are trade-offs for everything. But still - it must have been a transition.
[Which Palamedes may not want to discuss, so Paul moves on, his tone matter-of-fact as he sets down the teapot and still doesn't quite meet Palamedes' eyes:] Where do you want to start? I thought the desk could be a workspace, but I'm not sure what your approach is.
[Or, the actual reason Palamedes is here, and the reason Paul is uncomfortable in his skin in both a literal and emotional sense. Without the concealing blanket, the extent of his self-neglect shows in the deep bruising that flares in his hands, at his wrists, in his elbows, and then blossoms into wing-like striations on his shoulders. He crackled as he poured the tea. Maybe the house suits him better than he wants it to, temporary as it is.]
no subject
There's a purpose to the table beyond the mugs, at least. Paul shrugs off the blanket, revealing the sheathed knife strapped to his wrist, and he picks the fastening of it apart before he sets it next to the teapot. There's a deliberate telegraphing of motion as he does it, the air of a formal gesture.
Paul imagines a life entombed, and wonders what resource the Sixth has that ties its people to such a hostile world. What do they have in their archives? (The intensity of Palamedes' preparation, on the other hand, only registers as something that makes sense, another point of near-familiarity. How else do you produce a human being?)]
No windows, but you talk to other Houses enough to have a postal system. [A better topic. He rubs at his bruise-circled wrist, then very carefully lifts the teapot to pour into Palamedes' mug.] I suppose there are trade-offs for everything. But still - it must have been a transition.
[Which Palamedes may not want to discuss, so Paul moves on, his tone matter-of-fact as he sets down the teapot and still doesn't quite meet Palamedes' eyes:] Where do you want to start? I thought the desk could be a workspace, but I'm not sure what your approach is.
[Or, the actual reason Palamedes is here, and the reason Paul is uncomfortable in his skin in both a literal and emotional sense. Without the concealing blanket, the extent of his self-neglect shows in the deep bruising that flares in his hands, at his wrists, in his elbows, and then blossoms into wing-like striations on his shoulders. He crackled as he poured the tea. Maybe the house suits him better than he wants it to, temporary as it is.]