[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
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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.