"No?" The Saint of Patience sounds genuinely surprised, maybe even a little bit hurt at that.
(Perhaps the key word here is sounds — but then again, if there is literally nothing left that's genuine about someone, if everything he is is just one mask after another, isn't that another kind of truth, when you get right down to it?)
"I don't think you give yourself enough credit," he tells Ortus, gaze flickering lightly and lightning-quick, here to there, taking in some of his more... cuddly bits, robe-swaddled though they may be. "People throughout the universe have long held to a very wide standard of tastes; I don't see why you shouldn't be precisely what someone has been utterly longing for, for most of their life..."
A slower, more thoughtful drag on his cigarette, which — when withdrawn — is used to doodle a fairly Rubenesque series of curves in the air between them.
no subject
(Perhaps the key word here is sounds — but then again, if there is literally nothing left that's genuine about someone, if everything he is is just one mask after another, isn't that another kind of truth, when you get right down to it?)
"I don't think you give yourself enough credit," he tells Ortus, gaze flickering lightly and lightning-quick, here to there, taking in some of his more... cuddly bits, robe-swaddled though they may be. "People throughout the universe have long held to a very wide standard of tastes; I don't see why you shouldn't be precisely what someone has been utterly longing for, for most of their life..."
A slower, more thoughtful drag on his cigarette, which — when withdrawn — is used to doodle a fairly Rubenesque series of curves in the air between them.
"Where inspiration wishes to strike, of course."