[If a person has cause to be near the edge of Gaze and the dilapidated, looming house there, there is a chance they will come across Ortus fussing around the even more dilapidated shed at the edge of the property.
(Sleeping on God's hallowed couch had proved unbearable, at least partially because of the havoc it wrecked on his back.)
He is not, by any definition, a 'handy' man, but he is a diligent one. The debris that had filled the shed - a haphazard assortment of rusted tools, half-finished seeming projects, and rotted wooden planters - has been hauled outside and organized into piles for further consideration at another date. He has pinned heavy blackened canvas over the freshly cleaned windows, whose dim moonlit glow and view of the endless yawning sky had unnerved him as soon as their caked grime was scrubbed away. He has set up a modest, unyielding cot with sufficient blankets to stave off what he is informed is 'spring chill', though it lacks the bite of the Ninth's true cold.
The basics complete, Ortus can now turn to other, smaller projects. Dressed in his black robes with his face painted in a lesser elaboration of the Jawless Skull, Ortus labors under a thankfully dark daytime sky on marking the gaps in the shed wall with white chalk, looking solemnly and perplexedly at the crooked hang of the shed door, and sitting on a nearby stump holding a hammer as if he wished it might turn out to be something else.]
[Presumably, those last three labors are not taking place simultaneously — but whether they are or not, there's a tall, slender, pale shadow of a man lurking by the house's back door, adding the occasional waft of a more pungent smoke to whatever other fresh-air post-industrial pollutants (not to mention, of course, spring pollen) are cheerfully drifting through the air of Trench and waiting to fuck with people's lungs, and quite plainly watching Ortus at his labors.
His voice is polished, cultured, the sort of voice that sounds as though it ought to be raised to declaim poetry, or battle cries, or both — with no evident sign that the smoke has caused any damage to it, no less — and it's pitched to carry effortlessly across the yard, for all that it isn't raised.]
Works better when you're aiming at steel, rather than corpi unguii, if you're really looking to nail it.
[God must be so proud of this man who has spent ten thousand years playing Teacher's Pet.]
[With a sufficient lean, or perhaps a stick strapped to the chalk, Ortus might be capable of all three from where he sits on the slightly crooked stump. He is engaged in contemplation of the haft of the hammer when a voice calls out like the Drearburh bell itself, and his hand closes around it as he startles, straightening to attention in a way that Aiglamene would scoff to see.
He has not heard the voice before, too overcome by humility (and caution) to linger anywhere the man - the Saint - might be, but the face is that of the evidently benignly obnoxious Saint of Patience. He drops his gaze as soon as comprehension comes to him, respectfully averting his near-black eyes. Of course he was aware of the observer, but he would not have gotten as far as he did in life without the cultivation of practiced unnoticing.]
Thank you, most holy Saint. My knowledge of tools is, I admit, scant.
[ And it would appear that his knowledge of anatomically-inflected puns is, if anything, scanter; Augustine represses a sigh. ]
Hmmm, yes, well...
[ It would be a lie to say that he's lifting a hand to help; he's lifting a hand to... raise his cigarette to his lips, thereafter to take another drag from it while looking Very Thoughtful, and then tries again. What the hell does he even remember about Harrow's derelict false-Lyctoral-cavalier? ]
Perhaps your knowledge of scansion is more well-tooled?
[ C'mon, now, Ortus: this one is such an easy lob it's practically T-ball. ]
[A person would think that a man who spends as much time immersed in language as Ortus does would have an appreciation for wordplay, and they would be right to think it. The cleverness of the remark is not lost on him, nor the subtle joke of the inflections - but it is the source of it that cows him.]
I would venture so, Holy Finger.
[He has discovered a fascinating grey rock close by the Saint's feet, upon which he considers stumbling headfirst in pursuit of blessed unconsciousness.]
I have found it of meager use for this purpose. Is there some manner in which I may serve you, Saint Patience?
[He rather blasphemously hopes there is not. He would prefer, in this instance, to a thing toyed with, and not a thing of use.]
[ So far as answers go, this one is ... not the most helpful. But wait, there's more! ]
Saint of Patience. And I see that you're definitely using quite a lot of it, in your... woodworking... endeavors.
[ A faint gesture, with the lit cigarette, toward the shed, possibly in benediction, possibly just meant to be indicative of the fact that it looks like a death trap waiting to fall over until it can feed on its hapless residents.
Oh, but it's also worse than that: the Saint is giving Ortus a very speculative look; dare we say, even, a bit of a head-to-toe examination? Maybe looking to see if this fellow follows in his mother's treasonous footsteps; maybe just looking to see how likely it is that he's going to take the Lord's Name in vain, getting a little spicy blasphemy into the mix, as it were. There's even a faint trace of 'hmm, just what would Harrow say' in the mix, although that at least is not really evident in his eyes or expression. ]
In what manner do you find yourself best suited to serve? Given that the answer does not appear to be carpentry.
[The tracery of the Saint of Patience's gaze is profoundly unsettling. For all that he is layered in stiff Ninth black cloth and dutifully painted, Ortus feels exposed beneath it, his vulnerabilities (of which there are many) laid bare for the Saint's perusal.
He cannot help but to quiver at the correction of the Saint's title, his eyes darting up fretfully from the earth to him, which is when he beholds the incomprehensible sight of the Saint's speculation.
He wets the seam of his lips lightly, the habitual abbreviation of the gesture common to those who bear the Ninth skulls and do not relish the taste of their paint, and drops his attention sidelong to the dirt.]
In whatever capacity my Lady sees fit, or yourself, Saint of Patience.
[The dully correct and meaningless answer, meekly given. He should leave it at that. He knows that he should. The man before him is not Harrowhark, given to forbearance due to long acquaintance.]
But in the specific, I have a measure of skill in poetry. I have found it provides my Lady some comfort in her hours of difficulty.
[There's nothing objectionable in the statement, no reason given to suppose he refers to anything but the general difficulties of life itself, and it is wholly appropriate for a former cavalier to be devoted to providing a measure of respite against them.]
cw: sketchily sexual allusions (possibly ongoing for the rest of this thread)
'Whatever capacity' anyone 'sees fit' is, of course, a dreadfully wide-ranging and nonspecific answer; one that could demand Ortus take to his knees, to fulfill all manner of servile and demeaning tasks — no small number of which would ensure that Ortus would get more than a taste of his own greasepaint shoved down his throat. Well, presumably not with Harrowhark, but then again — it isn't as if Augustine has ever had a reason to be interested in identifying the Ninth Saint's preferred sexual peccadilloes, in the not-quite-a-year he's known her.
"Lord love a man who's good with his mouth," he answers airily, making no secret of the way his gaze is locked on that abbreviated gesture, as if desperately hoping for another glimpse of unpainted (pink!) tongue. "As do I, for that matter." (Wait, what? Is he implying something about the Lord Undying, if he structures his sentences so?) "Tell me — do you prefer to be the one opening up and letting whatever words come to hand spill out of your mouth, when inspiration strikes — or would you rather be the one doing the inspiring?"
So that's how it is. It isn't a kind of needling Ortus has experience being on the end of, but he is accustomed to enduring all manner of indignities. If this is what amuses the Saint of Patience, perhaps that is the lesson meant to be elicited from his name.
(Has anyone ever looked at him with interest in seeing his tongue, feigned or not? There is no memory that comes to him of such a thing. The Ninth was never a place of much passion, and what there was of it was never directed at him. It should not cut him so.)
"I prefer neither, Holy Saint, if you will forgive the choosing of the ungiven third," he says, his mouth hardly moving as he speaks, tongue veiled behind teeth, "I am rarely struck by inspiration as you describe. My work is the product of deliberation over time. I am not so blessed as many artists are, to have words come to me with such ease."
"And as you can see, Blessed Finger," he adds, the most deniable trace of acid in his self-depreciation, "There is little about me that would be a source of inspiration to anyone, even if I wished to be a muse."
[By pure coincidence, the most direct path from Palamedes' unmarked bunker and the looming face of God's Own House includes passing through a copse of scraggly, haunted-looking trees, the dramatic emergence through which should only be fitting for scions of the Empire of the Nine Houses: dark, somewhat haunted, inexplicably not coming down the street like a normal person.
For Palamedes, it's just annoying, but not so much that he's going to go around and waste the extra few minutes. It is thus that he appears in view of God's Own House and Some Guy's Own Shed, ostensibly on a quest to walk into God's kitchen and see if literally anyone else is around who can lend him a spatula: yanking the hem of his gray cloak off an errant thorny bush, and with leaves in his hair.
So he's taken just fine to living in a place with real plants, one could say.
He comes to an ambling stop not when he sees Ortus - he gazes fairly overtly at the hulking shape of a man marking a shed as he starts his way across the property some 50 feet away - but rather, when the realization dawns, he veers back to the shed proper with a more businesslike step. The kitchen can wait.]
The other Ninth; I'd heard you were here. [three whole Ninths looked upon with his own eyes, amazing!!] I'm the Sixth Warden. What's this you're doing?
[Ortus took note of the passing stranger approaching the Emperor's defense, and then he took note of his long, gray silhouette, the slight reflective flashing about his face. By the time the young Master Warden pivots on his path, Ortus has taken the opportunity to school his features to placidity.
There is still a lingering mournfulness to his expression, but this is not atypical. What is atypical, and what he dolefully hopes the young man does not notice, is the flicker of inexplicable relief as he regards the whole and intact face of a stranger.]
Warden of the Sixth. [Ortus dips his head in a respectful nod.] Yes. I am Ortus Nigenad.
[It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's been mentioned, and yet: it remains difficult to picture circumstances in which he would be a topic of discussion.]
As for what I am doing...
[He looks at the chalk-marked shed, then at his white dusted sleeves, then back to the Warden with an even more wearily dolorous set to his skull-painted face.]
It seemed best to identify the areas of concerns before formulating a plan to address them.
[Luckily for Ortus, Palamedes' near-obsessive attention to detail does not make him a mind-reader; he can catch the briefest shade of some other emotion under the paint, but with absolutely no context about Ortus Nigenad other than he is Ninth (and he writes some manner of Long Works), it ends there.
Perhaps Ortus is merely relieved his visitor is not, like, some kind of weirdo. Like God or something. Never mind that thought, for now. Palamedes returns a brisk nod, tilting to one side to see better the, ah, adventure with the chalk Ortus is having.]
Palamedes, [he offers, belatedly, and then,] You've identified an alarming number of concerns. Have you considered replacing the whole thing?
[Not that he knows anything about architecture, but he can count chalk marks in a hurry, and wow. No offense.]
I think chalk might be sturdier than some of this wood, actually.
[Considering some other encounters Ortus has had lately, the relief that Palamedes is not any manner of sanctified soul or divine being (AKA, some kind of weirdo) is a very explicable one.]
That would require an even greater array of skills I do not possess.
[He says it mildly, with a trace of self derisive humour, as he sets aside the chalk and dusts his hands in puffs of minerals.]
It serves as shelter for the time being. I have found it bracing to imagine myself a vanguard on a shepherd planet, homesteading the land as it is surveyed. The occasional breezes and periodic creaking add, I think, to the effect. [A slight, deliberate pause, for effect.] Also, I do not have sufficient quantities of chalk for larger architectural work.
[Ah, Palamedes thinks, and here is where it becomes inexorably clear that either, A) he has never understood Ninth humor, and he never will; or B) he and Ortus Nigenad could not be two more different people if one of them were actually a dog or something.
So it's one of those two. He's going to relish figuring it out, but first, he holds up a finger and then turns to the inside pockets of his gray cloak, rummaging for a bit before he produces a new and pristine piece of chalk, a tightly folded piece of paper, and a pen. The chalk, he offers.
It's for the bit. Take of his chalk and so bond the Ninth to Sixth, et cetera.]
A humble donation. Brace a crack in the door with it. [A beat.] You're not living in the house?
[Ortus beholds the chalk. With absolute solemnity, he accepts it, plucking it from Palamedes' hand with possibly unexpected delicacy.]
Thank you, Warden. I am certain it will serve admirably.
[Palamedes may have been the one to have stumbled across some kind of weirdo after all. Ortus tucks the chalk alongside its foreshortened brethren and glances towards the house so referenced.]
It did not seem appropriate for me to claim a place there. [He looks away, towards one of the pale marks on the shed.] They had also run out of rooms. Here, I may stay close enough to serve my Lady and her cavalier, without imposing upon the rest of the household.
[All of this is said with nothing but quiet deference, so correct in all aspects as to almost suggest irony. But surely not.]
[Oh yes, this interaction is oozing with kind of a weird guy. Something about Ortus Nigenad is unerringly somber and reserved, even in an action as small as taking a piece of chalk, and a habitually twitchy and restless creature like Palamedes Sextus is struck by the sensation that he's talking to molasses, if molasses were a person.
In the nicest way, of course. The Ninth are peculiar in ways he's always found very quaint, so. Palamedes also looks toward the house, brow furrowed ever so slightly.]
Sure. [...] Did they ask you to serve? Have you got a bell in there, or something?
[He can maybe imagine Harrow saying the words to comply with tradition, but Gideon, ask someone to serve? Seems wack. Ortus Nigenad is an odd duck, no offense.]
You've got the right idea not to stay in there, at least. That house is so— [hm wait maybe don't say something offensive to the devout, it's not like he's Eighth and deserves it] —overwhelming.
[Impassivity is a saving grace in the Ninth. Ortus doesn't blink at overwhelming when he meets the Warden's remarkable grey eyes. His own near to black ones are merely steady, and cool, and there is somehow little of deference to be found in them.]
Overwhelming. Yes. [His attention slides back to the house.] At times I wonder how my lady bears it.
[He continues in the vein of placid calm, folding his hands inside his black sleeves. He thinks of what little he knows of Palamedes Sextus, almost all of it told to him by a woman who never met the young man in question, robbed of that chance by one of God's own closed Fists.]
They did not ask for my service. There was no need to. They are the Ninth, and I do not consider my service to my House complete. [He stresses Ninth more than is required.] As for a bell, if Lady Harrowhark or young Gideon saw fit to put one in place, I would answer it. For the time being, I rely on my proximity, and my Omen.
[Working for the majority of her life on an isolated estate crumbling under the weight of its hubris and haunted by uncountable ghosts—the familiarity, Sayo realizes, is probably why she always felt uncomfortable staying at the manse for more than a night—has left Sayo with some scattered knowledge in handy-ing. True, more specialized contractors were hired to do serious repairs, but sometimes the shed door just wouldn't open and she had to figure out what was wrong herself or else be yelled at by the madam.
Inhabiting a run-down warehouse slash martial arts dojo has only sharpened her talents, which is why's one of Ortus's friends that's qualified to actually help him in this instance. Such as properly instructing him on how to use a hammer rather than watching him sadly contemplate it while he mopes on a stump.
Wiping some sweat from her brow (a few months ago, this much exertion would've left Sayo lying on the ground panting, and despite her growing dissatisfaction with Johnny she quietly thanks her sensei), Sayo surveys the shack.]
Hm... the big problem is that it isn't rainproof. If you're going to be properly storing books in there, we need to find a way to make sure the roof doesn't leak. Water will spread through a space like that very quickly.
[Taking instruction from Sayo has proven more amenable than Ortus' past miserable endeavours in hands on education, but this has not protected him from splinters or the beginnings of new wear on his palm from use of the hammer. Still, progress has been made, and the novel aches in his shoulders at least fall along tolerable lines.
He is also sweating, as much from the unsettlingly warm air as the labor at hand, and his paint has smeared in several places, giving the impression that he has himself been left in the rain to melt.]
I do not think I care for rain. [Ortus says, after a period of silent contemplation (and discreet readjustment of his robes).] It is more of a nuisance than I anticipated. There is entirely too much damp on the whole.
[He heaves an impressive sigh, one that swells him on all sides before he deflates with a muttered:]
[Sayo can't help but be impressed by the incredible technique on display with Ortus's morose sigh. A full-body exhalation that articulated the exact degree of put-uponness and general depression that the sigh-er was experiencing without compromising on the drama of a full-body sigh took years of practice; Sayo had to begrudgingly admit that both Ortus's skill and experience greatly outweighed her own.
If Kanon still had eyes, he'd be wiping an ironic tear at the sigh's beauty.]
In my experience, rain is better left as a narrative device to enclose a circle rather than an actual phenomenon you have to weather. [God sprinting from the parlor to the chapel in the typhoon had been MISERABLE.] Although I'm curious what else you could be expecting besides water. I'm only familiar with the Ninth through what you've written in The Noniad, and the House's atmospheric conditions haven't yet come up in my reading.
[Ortus hesitates. As he often hesitates, even over the smallest of things, this is hardly worth noticing. With Sayo, however, Ortus suspects that it will be noted. The young woman's mind recalls a heretic trap that Ortus once read of in a battle report: an innocent seeming divot of earth with a ferocious clamping creature hidden at its base, ready to seize and hold anything that tumbled within its reach.
It's an admirable quality in a writer. It's a slightly unnerving one in a person, particularly one he seeks to keep secrets from.]
Necromancy, particularly that which concerns flesh, sometimes has...residues. Effluvia. [He may be honest in the general sense, if not his specific experience.] I have read several accounts of battle referring to 'rains of blood', and of course there is the literary device of 'rains of fire'.
Neither are typical of the Ninth. Our House's climate is controlled, lacking weather of any sort. The unpredictability of it is... [Another, slightly lighter sigh.] Unnerving. Does one ever become accustomed to it?
[A pause is a period. Full stop, end of sentence, collect your thoughts. Ortus leaving the content of the rest of that sentence to his interior just means Sayo has to read between the lines.
She remembers Sasha's easy stride through the catacombs, casually bantering with his "family" one moment, proclaiming that no one loved God the next.
She remembers the incomprehensible grief, almost eldritch in its depth and age, that she she saw play across his face for a brief moment when Kanon was first resurrected.
...it's easy to see why Ortus would have misgivings. Sayo was fond of Sasha herself, but monsters recognize monsters for what they are, even if they count them as men by their own tally.
Sayo nods along intently with Ortus's explanation as she grabs the sealant, climbing up the ladder to get to work on finishing Ortus's roof.]
It's odd to think about. What would be signs of apocalypse on my world was everyday occurrence on yours. [She pauses, then snorts.] Although I suppose you could say the same of much of what happens here.
..rain has been normal to me my whole life, so I can't speak to whether you'll ever get used to it. But if I can adjust to portals to our old lives falling from the sky or snow transforming me from one possibility to another, you should get used to it eventually.
[Sayo turns back, smiling.]
It's great background noise for reading, too. I can't count the number of times I've stayed up too late reading because the rhythm of the rain outside made the book too entrancing to put down. It's hard to say why that is, though.
Maybe harsh whether just makes us more inclined to get comfortable.
[Ortus does not steady the ladder, judging such a thing more likely to cause an accident than prevent it, but he does loiter nearby in the event that a soft landing is called for. He makes an excellent crash pad for unfortunate tumbles.
Her smile finds a subdued answer from him. He controls his expression in formal contexts, but for all that Sayo reminds him of the necromancers he's known, she is not above him in station (despite her current elevation). He does not have to conceal himself so much, and it is a surprising relief.
(It is also one of the many reasons his concern lingers. She is vulnerable in the way that brittle young people often are, so sure of the strength of their armor they do not understand the gaps in it. He would like her to know him as someone she can trust, in case - in case.)]
Perhaps I will also learn to find solace in the sound of falling water, especially now that it will be held at a remove from my ears.
[Is that an Ortus attempt at levity? Yes, it is.]
Disparity and contrast often heighten experiences. If I may refer back to the literary [as if he can be stopped] it is true that rain is often used as a device to emphasize the comfort of an interior space. It also serves to move characters into proximity with each other, although that is at odds with the goal of reading late into the night.
Did you often find yourself doing such a thing?
[Reading alone, listening to the rain outside (or to the distant hum of buried atmospheric engines).]
[Sayo spent half her life locked inside the armor of fiction, forging new layers whenever harsh reality beat against it, slowly suffocating in its cramped confines. It's only after that fateful game orchestrated by Beatrice that it was damaged beyond repair, and only in Trench that she'd gone through the painstaking work of cutting herself out of its rusting, battered plates.
Friends like Ortus make the labor easier, reminding her that there's some kindness yet, that she needn't numb herself to pleasure while failing to heal her pain. She snort-cackles at his dry quip—it's important to reinforce non-depressing behavior!—which turns into a small, nostalgic smile as she continues sealing the roof.]
More often than I'd like or was healthy, if I'm being honest. I didn't have many friends, and those who I did bond with... didn't exactly get why I was so enthused by mysteries.
It felt like the authors of those books were my first friends, in a way. After Gaap and the rest. I was having a conversation with them, as I took notes and theorized and tried to narrow down the motive of the culprit, and they handed me clues and red herrings in return.
[Ortus can readily picture Sayo curled up in library stacks that suspiciously resemble those of the Ninth, her fingers tracing the words of friends who would never know of her existence. It is an image that conjures up a soft ache of empathy, and he is glad she cannot make out his face well from the angle the roof allows.]
It is difficult to find oneself surrounded by those who do not appreciate the art of storytelling as you do.
[A touch dry, with a trace of contempt for those who fail to grasp the pleasures of a well told tale, but still with a note of sympathy.]
As I am certain will shock you [a moment's pause, to allow her to brace herself as needed] I, too, spent much time reading alone in my youth. Even more so in my adulthood, when not otherwise preoccupied by my duties.
I often found the characters of those tales...easier to understand than the people I lived alongside, however complex they may have been.
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deercountry2022-04-13 04:55 pm
mid-april | gaze: bone house | a shed of his own
(Sleeping on God's hallowed couch had proved unbearable, at least partially because of the havoc it wrecked on his back.)
He is not, by any definition, a 'handy' man, but he is a diligent one. The debris that had filled the shed - a haphazard assortment of rusted tools, half-finished seeming projects, and rotted wooden planters - has been hauled outside and organized into piles for further consideration at another date. He has pinned heavy blackened canvas over the freshly cleaned windows, whose dim moonlit glow and view of the endless yawning sky had unnerved him as soon as their caked grime was scrubbed away. He has set up a modest, unyielding cot with sufficient blankets to stave off what he is informed is 'spring chill', though it lacks the bite of the Ninth's true cold.
The basics complete, Ortus can now turn to other, smaller projects. Dressed in his black robes with his face painted in a lesser elaboration of the Jawless Skull, Ortus labors under a thankfully dark daytime sky on marking the gaps in the shed wall with white chalk, looking solemnly and perplexedly at the crooked hang of the shed door, and sitting on a nearby stump holding a hammer as if he wished it might turn out to be something else.]
sheds are very important, you know
His voice is polished, cultured, the sort of voice that sounds as though it ought to be raised to declaim poetry, or battle cries, or both — with no evident sign that the smoke has caused any damage to it, no less — and it's pitched to carry effortlessly across the yard, for all that it isn't raised.]
Works better when you're aiming at steel, rather than corpi unguii, if you're really looking to nail it.
[God must be so proud of this man who has spent ten thousand years playing Teacher's Pet.]
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He has not heard the voice before, too overcome by humility (and caution) to linger anywhere the man - the Saint - might be, but the face is that of the evidently benignly obnoxious Saint of Patience. He drops his gaze as soon as comprehension comes to him, respectfully averting his near-black eyes. Of course he was aware of the observer, but he would not have gotten as far as he did in life without the cultivation of practiced unnoticing.]
Thank you, most holy Saint. My knowledge of tools is, I admit, scant.
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Hmmm, yes, well...
[ It would be a lie to say that he's lifting a hand to help; he's lifting a hand to... raise his cigarette to his lips, thereafter to take another drag from it while looking Very Thoughtful, and then tries again. What the hell does he even remember about Harrow's derelict false-Lyctoral-cavalier? ]
Perhaps your knowledge of scansion is more well-tooled?
[ C'mon, now, Ortus: this one is such an easy lob it's practically T-ball. ]
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I would venture so, Holy Finger.
[He has discovered a fascinating grey rock close by the Saint's feet, upon which he considers stumbling headfirst in pursuit of blessed unconsciousness.]
I have found it of meager use for this purpose. Is there some manner in which I may serve you, Saint Patience?
[He rather blasphemously hopes there is not. He would prefer, in this instance, to a thing toyed with, and not a thing of use.]
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[ So far as answers go, this one is ... not the most helpful. But wait, there's more! ]
Saint of Patience. And I see that you're definitely using quite a lot of it, in your... woodworking... endeavors.
[ A faint gesture, with the lit cigarette, toward the shed, possibly in benediction, possibly just meant to be indicative of the fact that it looks like a death trap waiting to fall over until it can feed on its hapless residents.
Oh, but it's also worse than that: the Saint is giving Ortus a very speculative look; dare we say, even, a bit of a head-to-toe examination? Maybe looking to see if this fellow follows in his mother's treasonous footsteps; maybe just looking to see how likely it is that he's going to take the Lord's Name in vain, getting a little spicy blasphemy into the mix, as it were. There's even a faint trace of 'hmm, just what would Harrow say' in the mix, although that at least is not really evident in his eyes or expression. ]
In what manner do you find yourself best suited to serve? Given that the answer does not appear to be carpentry.
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He cannot help but to quiver at the correction of the Saint's title, his eyes darting up fretfully from the earth to him, which is when he beholds the incomprehensible sight of the Saint's speculation.
He wets the seam of his lips lightly, the habitual abbreviation of the gesture common to those who bear the Ninth skulls and do not relish the taste of their paint, and drops his attention sidelong to the dirt.]
In whatever capacity my Lady sees fit, or yourself, Saint of Patience.
[The dully correct and meaningless answer, meekly given. He should leave it at that. He knows that he should. The man before him is not Harrowhark, given to forbearance due to long acquaintance.]
But in the specific, I have a measure of skill in poetry. I have found it provides my Lady some comfort in her hours of difficulty.
[There's nothing objectionable in the statement, no reason given to suppose he refers to anything but the general difficulties of life itself, and it is wholly appropriate for a former cavalier to be devoted to providing a measure of respite against them.]
cw: sketchily sexual allusions (possibly ongoing for the rest of this thread)
"Lord love a man who's good with his mouth," he answers airily, making no secret of the way his gaze is locked on that abbreviated gesture, as if desperately hoping for another glimpse of unpainted (pink!) tongue. "As do I, for that matter." (Wait, what? Is he implying something about the Lord Undying, if he structures his sentences so?) "Tell me — do you prefer to be the one opening up and letting whatever words come to hand spill out of your mouth, when inspiration strikes — or would you rather be the one doing the inspiring?"
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(Has anyone ever looked at him with interest in seeing his tongue, feigned or not? There is no memory that comes to him of such a thing. The Ninth was never a place of much passion, and what there was of it was never directed at him. It should not cut him so.)
"I prefer neither, Holy Saint, if you will forgive the choosing of the ungiven third," he says, his mouth hardly moving as he speaks, tongue veiled behind teeth, "I am rarely struck by inspiration as you describe. My work is the product of deliberation over time. I am not so blessed as many artists are, to have words come to me with such ease."
"And as you can see, Blessed Finger," he adds, the most deniable trace of acid in his self-depreciation, "There is little about me that would be a source of inspiration to anyone, even if I wished to be a muse."
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making a sharp left directly into ortus' business
For Palamedes, it's just annoying, but not so much that he's going to go around and waste the extra few minutes. It is thus that he appears in view of God's Own House and Some Guy's Own Shed, ostensibly on a quest to walk into God's kitchen and see if literally anyone else is around who can lend him a spatula: yanking the hem of his gray cloak off an errant thorny bush, and with leaves in his hair.
So he's taken just fine to living in a place with real plants, one could say.
He comes to an ambling stop not when he sees Ortus - he gazes fairly overtly at the hulking shape of a man marking a shed as he starts his way across the property some 50 feet away - but rather, when the realization dawns, he veers back to the shed proper with a more businesslike step. The kitchen can wait.]
The other Ninth; I'd heard you were here. [three whole Ninths looked upon with his own eyes, amazing!!] I'm the Sixth Warden. What's this you're doing?
[Boy, Ninth tastes are something else, huh.]
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There is still a lingering mournfulness to his expression, but this is not atypical. What is atypical, and what he dolefully hopes the young man does not notice, is the flicker of inexplicable relief as he regards the whole and intact face of a stranger.]
Warden of the Sixth. [Ortus dips his head in a respectful nod.] Yes. I am Ortus Nigenad.
[It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's been mentioned, and yet: it remains difficult to picture circumstances in which he would be a topic of discussion.]
As for what I am doing...
[He looks at the chalk-marked shed, then at his white dusted sleeves, then back to the Warden with an even more wearily dolorous set to his skull-painted face.]
It seemed best to identify the areas of concerns before formulating a plan to address them.
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Perhaps Ortus is merely relieved his visitor is not, like, some kind of weirdo. Like God or something. Never mind that thought, for now. Palamedes returns a brisk nod, tilting to one side to see better the, ah, adventure with the chalk Ortus is having.]
Palamedes, [he offers, belatedly, and then,] You've identified an alarming number of concerns. Have you considered replacing the whole thing?
[Not that he knows anything about architecture, but he can count chalk marks in a hurry, and wow. No offense.]
I think chalk might be sturdier than some of this wood, actually.
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That would require an even greater array of skills I do not possess.
[He says it mildly, with a trace of self derisive humour, as he sets aside the chalk and dusts his hands in puffs of minerals.]
It serves as shelter for the time being. I have found it bracing to imagine myself a vanguard on a shepherd planet, homesteading the land as it is surveyed. The occasional breezes and periodic creaking add, I think, to the effect. [A slight, deliberate pause, for effect.] Also, I do not have sufficient quantities of chalk for larger architectural work.
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So it's one of those two. He's going to relish figuring it out, but first, he holds up a finger and then turns to the inside pockets of his gray cloak, rummaging for a bit before he produces a new and pristine piece of chalk, a tightly folded piece of paper, and a pen. The chalk, he offers.
It's for the bit. Take of his chalk and so bond the Ninth to Sixth, et cetera.]
A humble donation. Brace a crack in the door with it. [A beat.] You're not living in the house?
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Thank you, Warden. I am certain it will serve admirably.
[Palamedes may have been the one to have stumbled across some kind of weirdo after all. Ortus tucks the chalk alongside its foreshortened brethren and glances towards the house so referenced.]
It did not seem appropriate for me to claim a place there. [He looks away, towards one of the pale marks on the shed.] They had also run out of rooms. Here, I may stay close enough to serve my Lady and her cavalier, without imposing upon the rest of the household.
[All of this is said with nothing but quiet deference, so correct in all aspects as to almost suggest irony. But surely not.]
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In the nicest way, of course. The Ninth are peculiar in ways he's always found very quaint, so. Palamedes also looks toward the house, brow furrowed ever so slightly.]
Sure. [...] Did they ask you to serve? Have you got a bell in there, or something?
[He can maybe imagine Harrow saying the words to comply with tradition, but Gideon, ask someone to serve? Seems wack. Ortus Nigenad is an odd duck, no offense.]
You've got the right idea not to stay in there, at least. That house is so— [hm wait maybe don't say something offensive to the devout, it's not like he's Eighth and deserves it] —overwhelming.
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Overwhelming. Yes. [His attention slides back to the house.] At times I wonder how my lady bears it.
[He continues in the vein of placid calm, folding his hands inside his black sleeves. He thinks of what little he knows of Palamedes Sextus, almost all of it told to him by a woman who never met the young man in question, robbed of that chance by one of God's own closed Fists.]
They did not ask for my service. There was no need to. They are the Ninth, and I do not consider my service to my House complete. [He stresses Ninth more than is required.] As for a bell, if Lady Harrowhark or young Gideon saw fit to put one in place, I would answer it. For the time being, I rely on my proximity, and my Omen.
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Inhabiting a run-down warehouse slash martial arts dojo has only sharpened her talents, which is why's one of Ortus's friends that's qualified to actually help him in this instance. Such as properly instructing him on how to use a hammer rather than watching him sadly contemplate it while he mopes on a stump.
Wiping some sweat from her brow (a few months ago, this much exertion would've left Sayo lying on the ground panting, and despite her growing dissatisfaction with Johnny she quietly thanks her sensei), Sayo surveys the shack.]
Hm... the big problem is that it isn't rainproof. If you're going to be properly storing books in there, we need to find a way to make sure the roof doesn't leak. Water will spread through a space like that very quickly.
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He is also sweating, as much from the unsettlingly warm air as the labor at hand, and his paint has smeared in several places, giving the impression that he has himself been left in the rain to melt.]
I do not think I care for rain. [Ortus says, after a period of silent contemplation (and discreet readjustment of his robes).] It is more of a nuisance than I anticipated. There is entirely too much damp on the whole.
[He heaves an impressive sigh, one that swells him on all sides before he deflates with a muttered:]
At least it is only water.
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If Kanon still had eyes, he'd be wiping an ironic tear at the sigh's beauty.]
In my experience, rain is better left as a narrative device to enclose a circle rather than an actual phenomenon you have to weather. [God sprinting from the parlor to the chapel in the typhoon had been MISERABLE.] Although I'm curious what else you could be expecting besides water. I'm only familiar with the Ninth through what you've written in The Noniad, and the House's atmospheric conditions haven't yet come up in my reading.
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It's an admirable quality in a writer. It's a slightly unnerving one in a person, particularly one he seeks to keep secrets from.]
Necromancy, particularly that which concerns flesh, sometimes has...residues. Effluvia. [He may be honest in the general sense, if not his specific experience.] I have read several accounts of battle referring to 'rains of blood', and of course there is the literary device of 'rains of fire'.
Neither are typical of the Ninth. Our House's climate is controlled, lacking weather of any sort. The unpredictability of it is... [Another, slightly lighter sigh.] Unnerving. Does one ever become accustomed to it?
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She remembers Sasha's easy stride through the catacombs, casually bantering with his "family" one moment, proclaiming that no one loved God the next.
She remembers the incomprehensible grief, almost eldritch in its depth and age, that she she saw play across his face for a brief moment when Kanon was first resurrected.
...it's easy to see why Ortus would have misgivings. Sayo was fond of Sasha herself, but monsters recognize monsters for what they are, even if they count them as men by their own tally.
Sayo nods along intently with Ortus's explanation as she grabs the sealant, climbing up the ladder to get to work on finishing Ortus's roof.]
It's odd to think about. What would be signs of apocalypse on my world was everyday occurrence on yours. [She pauses, then snorts.] Although I suppose you could say the same of much of what happens here.
..rain has been normal to me my whole life, so I can't speak to whether you'll ever get used to it. But if I can adjust to portals to our old lives falling from the sky or snow transforming me from one possibility to another, you should get used to it eventually.
[Sayo turns back, smiling.]
It's great background noise for reading, too. I can't count the number of times I've stayed up too late reading because the rhythm of the rain outside made the book too entrancing to put down. It's hard to say why that is, though.
Maybe harsh whether just makes us more inclined to get comfortable.
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Her smile finds a subdued answer from him. He controls his expression in formal contexts, but for all that Sayo reminds him of the necromancers he's known, she is not above him in station (despite her current elevation). He does not have to conceal himself so much, and it is a surprising relief.
(It is also one of the many reasons his concern lingers. She is vulnerable in the way that brittle young people often are, so sure of the strength of their armor they do not understand the gaps in it. He would like her to know him as someone she can trust, in case - in case.)]
Perhaps I will also learn to find solace in the sound of falling water, especially now that it will be held at a remove from my ears.
[Is that an Ortus attempt at levity? Yes, it is.]
Disparity and contrast often heighten experiences. If I may refer back to the literary [as if he can be stopped] it is true that rain is often used as a device to emphasize the comfort of an interior space. It also serves to move characters into proximity with each other, although that is at odds with the goal of reading late into the night.
Did you often find yourself doing such a thing?
[Reading alone, listening to the rain outside (or to the distant hum of buried atmospheric engines).]
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Friends like Ortus make the labor easier, reminding her that there's some kindness yet, that she needn't numb herself to pleasure while failing to heal her pain. She snort-cackles at his dry quip—it's important to reinforce non-depressing behavior!—which turns into a small, nostalgic smile as she continues sealing the roof.]
More often than I'd like or was healthy, if I'm being honest. I didn't have many friends, and those who I did bond with... didn't exactly get why I was so enthused by mysteries.
It felt like the authors of those books were my first friends, in a way. After Gaap and the rest. I was having a conversation with them, as I took notes and theorized and tried to narrow down the motive of the culprit, and they handed me clues and red herrings in return.
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It is difficult to find oneself surrounded by those who do not appreciate the art of storytelling as you do.
[A touch dry, with a trace of contempt for those who fail to grasp the pleasures of a well told tale, but still with a note of sympathy.]
As I am certain will shock you [a moment's pause, to allow her to brace herself as needed] I, too, spent much time reading alone in my youth. Even more so in my adulthood, when not otherwise preoccupied by my duties.
I often found the characters of those tales...easier to understand than the people I lived alongside, however complex they may have been.
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