[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.
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.