[Ortus has met very few people in his life who have varied from the mold of a religious penitent or devotee. He met a wider variety in his death, but none of them are who he finds himself thinking of when the woman beside him speaks. At the mere recollection of Aiglamene, his erstwhile and always disappointed teacher, his spine straightens neatly as his throat bobs in a reflexively nervous swallow. The woman at his side does not, he thinks, intend to be intimidating. It is simply a quality she possesses, the way another person might possess a particularly large hat.]
There have been few opportunities.
[And little interest on his part in pursuing them. The last time he drank he was a teenager, huddled alone in a disused access tunnel, and it had done nothing but add a splitting two day headache to his problems.]
But today has been unusual in several respects.
[He lifts the glass, and takes a measured, dubious sip, expression twisting only mildly at the eruption of sour, fermented bubbles on his tongue.]
I was a squid this morning.
[It's an explanation he's found useful several times already, and it seems to get most of what he means across.]
[ If she's aware of the effect that her presence has on present company, she doesn't show it. Maybe what she has is the innate gravitas of being several thousand years old, once worshipped as queen and goddess — or something simpler, just the natural severity of her face, all sharp eyes and that distinctly Grecian nose. Whatever the quality is, the woman doesn't wield it against the apparently inexperienced drinker sitting next to her. She only makes a quiet noise of vague amusement in response to his explanation, the corner of her mouth turning upward as she turns to look at him more properly. ]
You don't seem any worse off for it. [ She tips her now empty beer glass in his direction. ] So here's to that.
[ Andy had only washed up on the beach recently herself, though she doesn't feel pressed to relate out loud. Instead, watching him take that dubious sip, she offers dryly: ]
It'll take you a fucking age to get drunk if you keep this pace.
[Many things intimidate Ortus. He holds it against few of them, and certainly not against the dryly amenable woman offering him advice. He appreciates her quietness in this otherwise uncomfortably boisterous atmosphere.
(The dive bar's subdued drinkers would not register as 'boisterous' by any measure but that of a person raised in a holy mausoleum.)
Ortus tips his glass back at her hesitantly, uncertain if he has answered the gesture correctly.]
Here is to that.
[He looks into the golden liquid again pensively.]
I do not wish to become intoxicated. I doubt my Lady would appreciate any additional embarrassment on my part. But it seemed...fitting.
I am remiss. I have not introduced myself. Ortus Nigenad, of the Ninth, though I doubt that holds much meaning for you.
[ She's the sort that usually prefers drinking in solitude — to make a thoughtless activity of it, letting the bottom of a bottle kill time — but despite his conspicuous face paint and imposing stature, she finds the present company not at all intrusive. Tolerable, certainly, and maybe even a bit welcome. She gives his introduction more attention than she might have otherwise, perhaps even a little entertained with the formality. ]
It holds some now. [ Meaning, that is. Her wryness persists: ] Ortus Nigenad of the Ninth, who was recently a squid — and wanted to drink, but not enough to get drunk. A fucking paragon of restraint for the sake of his lady's honor.
[Andy's continued vulgarity wrests only the slightest quirk of an eyebrow out of Ortus. He's not prone to such language himself, but he believes he knows the difference between someone using it to shock and someone accustomed to casual roughness.
That, and she called him a paragon of restraint for his lady's honor, which is oddly flattering, faintly distressing, and sharply amusing all at once.]
It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Andy. [He says, softly, with a slight crinkling around his eyes.] On the subject of such things.
Indeed, it is in honor of yet another I lift this glass. Not a lady. A soldier. One of surpassing fidelity and bravery, who taught me a truism I now reflect on.
[Ortus does lift his glass, holding it up on the meager light until it catches a dim ray.]
'Chickenshits don't get beer.' For Marta the Second, wherever she may be.
[This time, when Ortus drinks, it is not so tentative.]
[ There’s a tangible half-beat of muted surprise before Andy abruptly barks out a laugh. It’s a short and hard sound, harsh like her habitual profanity, but not insincere despite the sharp shape that amusement makes from her mouth. Her first laugh since washing up in Trench, probably. Chickenshits in-fucking-deed.
Reaching out, she claps Ortus on the back, right between the shoulder blades. Hopefully he’s managed to finish swallowing that mouthful of cheap booze by then. ]
For Marta. [ She agrees without needing to know the details of who the hell Marta is or was. ] A solider after my own heart, at least where beer is concerned. She must have taught you well.
[Ortus is not accustomed to people laughing in his vicinity. He is absolutely not accustomed to such casual and friendly contact, and it is fortunate indeed he had already swallowed his beer, for the startled whuff he releases would not be enhanced by sputtering.
He supposes he ought to be affronted or distressed, or some mixture of both. He is certainly surprised. But instead, he finds himself...not charmed, precisely, a word too frivolous for this occasion, but warmed in his inclinations towards her. This is a woman he thinks Marta would have appreciated.]
She did. [He nods, softness in his shaded eyes.] She had no reason to do so, and yet she did. She showed great courage, and a greater generosity of spirit.
Are you a soldier, yourself? Or simply familiar with them?
[ Andy might practice a bit more caution with these things if she'd ever had to face a permanent consequence for such impulses in the past. But whatever misery the curse of immortality has brought her, it certainly allows a bit of impunity for her whims. Either way, Ortus doesn't seem too inclined towards retribution. He'd be entitled to it, if he wanted — but instead, he offers her a little softness, which is altogether more unexpected. She isn't, she thinks, the kind of person that normally inspires that.
After a moment, with a rare honesty: ]
I've lived a long life and been a lot of things. But the battlefield always calls me back. [ With a twinge of wryness: ] Guess that makes me a soldier of some kind.
[Ortus tends to softness as a rule, a quality he has held to with no small amount of unsoft stubbornness. The universe is a hard place. He may not be able to do little to ease that, but he does not have to add to it.]
Or a warrior. [He pronounces the word with a weight of respect.] Though that is no distinction I am fit to make.
[It seems a personal choice, how one describes their relationship to violence. His own, for example, he would not label under either, a fact perhaps revealed by his apprehension when he asks:]
[ Warrior is a noble name for it, and one that's felt right before. Then again, sometimes murderer seems more true. But maybe she isn't fit to make that distinction either. She isn't really sure it matters, in the end. It certainly doesn't matter to the dead. ]
Here? I've seen more bars than battlefields. [ Her tone, by contrast to his, is nonchalant. ] But I haven't been in Trench long, and I'm a creature of certain habits.
[ She watches Ortus a moment, giving him the weight of her attention before she asks a bit wryly: ]
Why? Does the idea of a battlefield make you nervous?
[A woman who knows how to handle herself, as they say. Marta would be pleased to have been toasted by her, even as a stranger. Ortus accepts her attention with equanimity, resisting the urge to fidget or shy away. It seems unbecoming.]
Very much so.
[He admits this with a strange mixture of timidity and certainty. Ortus is a man who knows he is a coward, and has made peace with his shame.]
I am not suited for battle, in skill or temperament. I will serve if called to do so, or if my Lady and my House are endangered, but to what end - besides my own? So I am much relieved to hear that such establishments as these are more common than the shedding of blood.
[ That's not a confession everyone would readily make, and certainly the kind of thing that might earn ridicule. Names. Coward being the least of them. But he doesn't look away, holding her heavy stare through his admission. That's still worthy of respect, she thinks. The honesty of it. The self-awareness. She's known plenty of warriors lacking in both. She isn't a particularly honest creature herself.
Besides, it isn't the same for her, is it? Cursed as she is. She's had thousands of years to learn from mistakes that would have killed most anyone else. Centuries in her immortal flesh have made her numb to the sight of her own insides. Death doesn't seem much interested in her, even though there's been times that she's begged any god or higher power to set her free. She doesn't beg often these days. Now she drinks. ]
There's nothing wrong with fear. [ She answers mildly, her tone a bit detached. Maybe it sounds like she's making light of it all — but there isn't any judgement there either. ] Fear keeps you alive. And most people are more useful when they're alive.
[ Finally, her gaze breaks away, contemplating her empty glass instead. ]
[Andy's lack of judgment is more than Ortus expects, and much more than he would have hoped for, if he was prone to hoping for much. He does not flinch under her regard, and finds himself in the unusual position of being the one left looking after another has turned away.]
Fear may also keep you from living. A balance must be struck.
[It is an unadorned fact, no more in dispute than that this bar is made of wood, or that his own glass is approaching emptiness. He drains the dregs and pushes it away from himself, which seems to be a signal to the bartender, who begins to fill it once more without a word.]
I am suited to long hours spent alone reading unbearably dusty volumes, longer hours hours yet spent before blank pages, and an interminable amount of time spent pondering meter. In short, I am suited to poetry. Particularly about battles, strange as that may seem.
[ He's not wrong. Sometimes she thinks fear is the one thing that's kept her from happiness. There's nothing that would make her hesitate in the heat of battle — she could stare down the barrel of a gun without breaking a sweat — but the idea of being with people, being known by them... Caring about them. Fuck. That scares her. The hurt that can come from giving a damn. Now there's a wound that lingers.
The bottom of a bottle is easier. Comfortingly familiar, in a way. ]
Not so strange. I guess it is prettier on paper than it is in person. [ She offers their bartender a little nod of thanks when her glass is refilled with the same questionable beer that sparked this conversation to begin with. Wryly then: ] Don't tell me you write nonets.
[It is instantly apparent from the sound of Ortus' laughter that he does not do it often. There is a dusty unfurling quality to it like an ancient scroll spinning out, ending in a clatter of a cleared throat hidden behind his raised hand. His eyes are warmed by it, dark, rich soil under sunlight.]
Nonets? Perish the thought.
[A weak denial, shortly followed by the admission:]
Not for some years. My work is in enneameter, the nine foot line. It is the traditional form. I thought it fitting to use a style contemporary to the time I depicted.
As you say. Conflict is more lovely in the abstract, confined to a regimented form.
It seems you know your poetic conventions. Have you ever found one of your own battles so depicted? Again, forgive me the question, if it is too forward.
[ The truth is, she isn't normally one to humor personal questions. There are days when she hardly feels inclined to give her name. Maybe it's just the disinhibiting quality of the alcohol in her gut. She'd like to place the blame there instead of the fact that, despite her best efforts and all appearances, she's always been drawn to good company — and she isn't immune to the warmth of another person's laugh.
It shows in her eyes, a subtle shift in the shape of them — how it just slightly softens the natural severity of her face. ]
Maybe. Sometimes there were songs. Someone probably wrote something down at some point. [ With a small shrug of her shoulders and a twinge of wryness: ] Honestly, there's been so many battles, I don't remember them all too clearly.
[Ortus has spent so much of his life around people who already knew him, often seemingly better than he knew himself. It is a very new thing to find himself speaking to people he cannot help but still think of as outsiders. It is even newer to discover, to his great surprise, that he seems capable of doing so in a way that does not alienate or isolate.
These are many words to say: he notices the mild alteration of her expression, and it evokes a fluttering gladness in him that has nothing to do with intoxication.]
Story telling is meant for recalling that which would otherwise be forgotten. The incarnation of memory outside of oneself. [He gives her a gently appraising look.] I do not doubt you have impressed memory into the world, here and elsewhere.
[ He can't possibly know all the reasons why sentiment charms her. The fact that she's so ancient that her own birth came before humans had written history, back when all they had was storytelling. And how they told them. Around the fire, out in the crisp night air of the steppe. How they sang about gods and spirits, life and death. Listening to Ortus talk brings back a sense of distant nostalgia — a bittersweet longing for the old days.
She's the only one left of her people now. Has been, for a long time. And she can't remember much of what they were or what they had. It's all become dust, except for a few scattered memories. A few last songs and stories. ]
A poet and a flatterer. [ Wryly: ] You say that, but you haven't even seen me fight. For all you know, drinking is all I'm good for.
so sorry for the delay, got sick - we can handwave/wrap soonish if you'd like?
[Ortus draws himself up on his stool with all the dignity he has, which is considerable. He has cultivated it over years, for all the good it has tended to do for him, a gravity of feeling that insists on seriousness.]
I do not flatter. A poet must have a sensitivity to character. An ear for how others speak of themselves, and what their style of speaking implies. An eye for their demeanor, and what it hints at of the deeper self. [He looks at her levelly.] You spoke of fighting many battles, but did not boast of triumphs. You hold yourself with assurance, but not arrogance.
I am not a warrior, but I have known them. If drinking is all you are good for, I must doubt my own powers of apprehension, and I do not.
[It's a forward thing to assert to someone he met all of minutes ago, but he is - inspired, and possibly a shade emboldened by drink.]
hope you're feeling better!! we can leave it with this tag or whatever you're comfortable with!
[ His response earns a look of muted surprise from her, like she hadn't expected such a sincere and earnest answer to what was, to her, just a moment of habitual self-deprecation. A deflection even, meant to prevent anyone from seeing her too clearly. But it seems like it might be a little too late for that, with this one. He's seen her more clearly than most, and his words catch her off guard.
It takes her a half-beat to reply, but when she does, she holds his gaze steadily, offering in return an honesty that's rare for her. Earned. ]
...Maybe it's just that I'm tired of the things I am good for.
[ With that, she eases from her seat at the bar, leaving enough payment for the both of them before reaching out to pat him lightly on the shoulder. ]
Welcome to Trench, Ortus. If I'm lucky, we'll get a chance to talk again.
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deercountry2022-04-13 04:55 pm
no subject
There have been few opportunities.
[And little interest on his part in pursuing them. The last time he drank he was a teenager, huddled alone in a disused access tunnel, and it had done nothing but add a splitting two day headache to his problems.]
But today has been unusual in several respects.
[He lifts the glass, and takes a measured, dubious sip, expression twisting only mildly at the eruption of sour, fermented bubbles on his tongue.]
I was a squid this morning.
[It's an explanation he's found useful several times already, and it seems to get most of what he means across.]
no subject
You don't seem any worse off for it. [ She tips her now empty beer glass in his direction. ] So here's to that.
[ Andy had only washed up on the beach recently herself, though she doesn't feel pressed to relate out loud. Instead, watching him take that dubious sip, she offers dryly: ]
It'll take you a fucking age to get drunk if you keep this pace.
no subject
(The dive bar's subdued drinkers would not register as 'boisterous' by any measure but that of a person raised in a holy mausoleum.)
Ortus tips his glass back at her hesitantly, uncertain if he has answered the gesture correctly.]
Here is to that.
[He looks into the golden liquid again pensively.]
I do not wish to become intoxicated. I doubt my Lady would appreciate any additional embarrassment on my part. But it seemed...fitting.
I am remiss. I have not introduced myself. Ortus Nigenad, of the Ninth, though I doubt that holds much meaning for you.
no subject
It holds some now. [ Meaning, that is. Her wryness persists: ] Ortus Nigenad of the Ninth, who was recently a squid — and wanted to drink, but not enough to get drunk. A fucking paragon of restraint for the sake of his lady's honor.
[ And in return, for enduring her teasing: ]
People call me Andy.
no subject
That, and she called him a paragon of restraint for his lady's honor, which is oddly flattering, faintly distressing, and sharply amusing all at once.]
It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Andy. [He says, softly, with a slight crinkling around his eyes.] On the subject of such things.
Indeed, it is in honor of yet another I lift this glass. Not a lady. A soldier. One of surpassing fidelity and bravery, who taught me a truism I now reflect on.
[Ortus does lift his glass, holding it up on the meager light until it catches a dim ray.]
'Chickenshits don't get beer.' For Marta the Second, wherever she may be.
[This time, when Ortus drinks, it is not so tentative.]
no subject
Reaching out, she claps Ortus on the back, right between the shoulder blades. Hopefully he’s managed to finish swallowing that mouthful of cheap booze by then. ]
For Marta. [ She agrees without needing to know the details of who the hell Marta is or was. ] A solider after my own heart, at least where beer is concerned. She must have taught you well.
no subject
He supposes he ought to be affronted or distressed, or some mixture of both. He is certainly surprised. But instead, he finds himself...not charmed, precisely, a word too frivolous for this occasion, but warmed in his inclinations towards her. This is a woman he thinks Marta would have appreciated.]
She did. [He nods, softness in his shaded eyes.] She had no reason to do so, and yet she did. She showed great courage, and a greater generosity of spirit.
Are you a soldier, yourself? Or simply familiar with them?
no subject
After a moment, with a rare honesty: ]
I've lived a long life and been a lot of things. But the battlefield always calls me back. [ With a twinge of wryness: ] Guess that makes me a soldier of some kind.
no subject
Or a warrior. [He pronounces the word with a weight of respect.] Though that is no distinction I am fit to make.
[It seems a personal choice, how one describes their relationship to violence. His own, for example, he would not label under either, a fact perhaps revealed by his apprehension when he asks:]
Are there many battlefields here?
no subject
Here? I've seen more bars than battlefields. [ Her tone, by contrast to his, is nonchalant. ] But I haven't been in Trench long, and I'm a creature of certain habits.
[ She watches Ortus a moment, giving him the weight of her attention before she asks a bit wryly: ]
Why? Does the idea of a battlefield make you nervous?
no subject
Very much so.
[He admits this with a strange mixture of timidity and certainty. Ortus is a man who knows he is a coward, and has made peace with his shame.]
I am not suited for battle, in skill or temperament. I will serve if called to do so, or if my Lady and my House are endangered, but to what end - besides my own? So I am much relieved to hear that such establishments as these are more common than the shedding of blood.
no subject
Besides, it isn't the same for her, is it? Cursed as she is. She's had thousands of years to learn from mistakes that would have killed most anyone else. Centuries in her immortal flesh have made her numb to the sight of her own insides. Death doesn't seem much interested in her, even though there's been times that she's begged any god or higher power to set her free. She doesn't beg often these days. Now she drinks. ]
There's nothing wrong with fear. [ She answers mildly, her tone a bit detached. Maybe it sounds like she's making light of it all — but there isn't any judgement there either. ] Fear keeps you alive. And most people are more useful when they're alive.
[ Finally, her gaze breaks away, contemplating her empty glass instead. ]
What are you suited for then, if not a fight?
no subject
Fear may also keep you from living. A balance must be struck.
[It is an unadorned fact, no more in dispute than that this bar is made of wood, or that his own glass is approaching emptiness. He drains the dregs and pushes it away from himself, which seems to be a signal to the bartender, who begins to fill it once more without a word.]
I am suited to long hours spent alone reading unbearably dusty volumes, longer hours hours yet spent before blank pages, and an interminable amount of time spent pondering meter. In short, I am suited to poetry. Particularly about battles, strange as that may seem.
no subject
The bottom of a bottle is easier. Comfortingly familiar, in a way. ]
Not so strange. I guess it is prettier on paper than it is in person. [ She offers their bartender a little nod of thanks when her glass is refilled with the same questionable beer that sparked this conversation to begin with. Wryly then: ] Don't tell me you write nonets.
no subject
Nonets? Perish the thought.
[A weak denial, shortly followed by the admission:]
Not for some years. My work is in enneameter, the nine foot line. It is the traditional form. I thought it fitting to use a style contemporary to the time I depicted.
As you say. Conflict is more lovely in the abstract, confined to a regimented form.
It seems you know your poetic conventions. Have you ever found one of your own battles so depicted? Again, forgive me the question, if it is too forward.
no subject
It shows in her eyes, a subtle shift in the shape of them — how it just slightly softens the natural severity of her face. ]
Maybe. Sometimes there were songs. Someone probably wrote something down at some point. [ With a small shrug of her shoulders and a twinge of wryness: ] Honestly, there's been so many battles, I don't remember them all too clearly.
no subject
These are many words to say: he notices the mild alteration of her expression, and it evokes a fluttering gladness in him that has nothing to do with intoxication.]
Story telling is meant for recalling that which would otherwise be forgotten. The incarnation of memory outside of oneself. [He gives her a gently appraising look.] I do not doubt you have impressed memory into the world, here and elsewhere.
no subject
She's the only one left of her people now. Has been, for a long time. And she can't remember much of what they were or what they had. It's all become dust, except for a few scattered memories. A few last songs and stories. ]
A poet and a flatterer. [ Wryly: ] You say that, but you haven't even seen me fight. For all you know, drinking is all I'm good for.
so sorry for the delay, got sick - we can handwave/wrap soonish if you'd like?
I do not flatter. A poet must have a sensitivity to character. An ear for how others speak of themselves, and what their style of speaking implies. An eye for their demeanor, and what it hints at of the deeper self. [He looks at her levelly.] You spoke of fighting many battles, but did not boast of triumphs. You hold yourself with assurance, but not arrogance.
I am not a warrior, but I have known them. If drinking is all you are good for, I must doubt my own powers of apprehension, and I do not.
[It's a forward thing to assert to someone he met all of minutes ago, but he is - inspired, and possibly a shade emboldened by drink.]
hope you're feeling better!! we can leave it with this tag or whatever you're comfortable with!
It takes her a half-beat to reply, but when she does, she holds his gaze steadily, offering in return an honesty that's rare for her. Earned. ]
...Maybe it's just that I'm tired of the things I am good for.
[ With that, she eases from her seat at the bar, leaving enough payment for the both of them before reaching out to pat him lightly on the shoulder. ]
Welcome to Trench, Ortus. If I'm lucky, we'll get a chance to talk again.