"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A slower, more thoughtful drag on his cigarette, which — when withdrawn — is used to doodle a fairly Rubenesque series of curves in the air between them.
If Ortus' faith had not already been hewn away by the vagaries of his existence, he might find himself in the grip of crisis in this instance, watching with dull diffidence as the Saint traces the air languidly with the glowing tip of his cigarette.
But he has not believed that God was kind since he was but a child, and he has known it since he was seventeen. That his Saint is a lech is, at least, superior to several alternatives.
"I defer to your wisdom, Holy Saint," he says, with a formal bow of his head, mouth this time not so stiff, "I would not think to gainsay your experience in such matters."
It is possible his tone implies that such experience may encompass a breadth and depth of knowledge that would put the poets of the Sixth House to shame, delivered in the arch shaping of vowels and the mildest quirking of his brow. He is half Eighth; he knows his way about such things.
"I would imagine that any such one would prefer, however, that my domicile not contain so many gaps between its boards."
Alas, poor Ortus; here, he is subjected to chortling. It's a terrible laugh: terribly amused, terribly loud, terribly long, terribly performative — there's even a knee-slap, and the Saint of Patience does not even have the good grace to use the hand holding the cigarette, thereby setting his trousers on fire.
"Oh, bless you!" saith Patience, laughter switched off (to a smile) all at once after all too long. (Admittedly, five seconds may well have been too long, with that laugh.) "Shouldn't doubt it for a moment!"
(Warning: Unclear Antecedents! Shouldn't doubt his prior encouragements? Shouldn't doubt what Ortus himself just said? Both?! ... it's probably both.)
The smile switches off as well, as a more speculative gaze settles on volleying between Ortus and the Shed of Ortus, and — inevitably — another drag off the cig, although at least this time he isn't using it as a presentation aid.
"And what is your current plan in that regard, other than the chalk?"
Next to nothing changes in his demeanor. He still does not curl his hands shut, nor clench his jaw. There is simply a complete cessation of motion save for the minute realignment of his features, his own placid mask cracked down its center over an icy sheen of -
And it is gone so swiftly it is as if there was never a lapse, his face only round and dull and foolish in its glumness. Whatever flare may have been is doused in dim nothingness, as Ortus schools himself once more to impassivity.
"To seek aid, if I am able to enlist it," he says, with an air of apology for the answer, "To seek education, if I am not."
"And here I was just desperately hoping you were going to start with something along the lines of 'find a nice comfortable way to plug those gaps,'" answers the Saint, with a sad sort of sigh, and a little bit of a cigarette-gesture (again, of course) that is maybe a little bit stabby and a little bit thrusty and really it would probably have been better for the sake of Ortus's mental health if the thrusting hadn't repeated three or four times.
"Some of those holes are quite glorious," he adds, tone shifting a bit more conciliatory, and when did he get quite close enough to clap Ortus on the shoulder in such a companionable way? How can Ortus get away again without causing offense?? His hand squeezes that doughy, monklike shoulder, quite firmly, although not quite painfully. (Maybe just a little bit too athletically for comfort.)
"The way I see it, you've got a few options," Patience continues, still gripping poor Ortus's shoulder, smoking with his other hand. "Now, spray foam is not sealant — I wouldn't recommend counting on that to do anything good for you, especially not internally — but even if you don't want to replace all the warped boards — which is arguably the highest-quality fix, although it's also going to be the most time-intensive — you should still be able to find some nice faggots for the largest gaps, and once you've got them jammed into those holes as hard and deep as you can, you can caulk them in place the rest of the way."
This last part, unlike all those earlier parts, said with the straightest and kindliest of faces, of course.
The Ninth is not a House of casual touch. Ortus is not a man who wishes it was otherwise. When the Saint claps his shoulder he tenses, his holy instructions nearly drowned out by a hum of discomfort. The acrid smoke only contributes to his queasiness, a hard, tumbling ball in his hollowed stomach.
There is no retreat he may make or resistance he may offer. His withdrawal is an internal one, sinking into numbness. His shoulder slackens, the bunching of perhaps unexpectedly sturdy musculature under his soft exterior giving way to limp passivity.
"Thank you, Holy Finger," he says, deferentially absent, a poppet animated by long practice, "I find myself with many unaccounted for hours, of late. I will endeavor to apply the highest quality of repair. I would not represent the Empire poorly, with haphazard work."
It is, maybe, disappointing, to the Emperor's First Saint, that this chunky-monk-ey of the Ninth House gives in so readily.
... Still, he's not going to let it stop him; the man clearly needs someone to encourage him to stand up for himself, shake out his vestments, learn to live a little under the skull paint, right?
(Isn't he the one with the terrible mother, after all? From what little Harrowhark said of the matter, he can't begin to think that she would have encouraged the boy to become a man, in the way of such things.)
"You as well, eh?" is offered conspiratorially, or almost affectionately — and then the Saint of Patience slings an arm around Ortus's shoulders, steering him back toward his (his!) shed, cigarette ashing itself into nothingness as it falls from his other hand (and never quite lands). "Let's see what you've got to commence repairs with, then! No time like the present!"
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deercountry2022-04-13 04:55 pm
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."
no subject
But he has not believed that God was kind since he was but a child, and he has known it since he was seventeen. That his Saint is a lech is, at least, superior to several alternatives.
"I defer to your wisdom, Holy Saint," he says, with a formal bow of his head, mouth this time not so stiff, "I would not think to gainsay your experience in such matters."
It is possible his tone implies that such experience may encompass a breadth and depth of knowledge that would put the poets of the Sixth House to shame, delivered in the arch shaping of vowels and the mildest quirking of his brow. He is half Eighth; he knows his way about such things.
"I would imagine that any such one would prefer, however, that my domicile not contain so many gaps between its boards."
no subject
"Oh, bless you!" saith Patience, laughter switched off (to a smile) all at once after all too long. (Admittedly, five seconds may well have been too long, with that laugh.) "Shouldn't doubt it for a moment!"
(Warning: Unclear Antecedents! Shouldn't doubt his prior encouragements? Shouldn't doubt what Ortus himself just said? Both?! ... it's probably both.)
The smile switches off as well, as a more speculative gaze settles on volleying between Ortus and the Shed of Ortus, and — inevitably — another drag off the cig, although at least this time he isn't using it as a presentation aid.
"And what is your current plan in that regard, other than the chalk?"
no subject
Next to nothing changes in his demeanor. He still does not curl his hands shut, nor clench his jaw. There is simply a complete cessation of motion save for the minute realignment of his features, his own placid mask cracked down its center over an icy sheen of -
And it is gone so swiftly it is as if there was never a lapse, his face only round and dull and foolish in its glumness. Whatever flare may have been is doused in dim nothingness, as Ortus schools himself once more to impassivity.
"To seek aid, if I am able to enlist it," he says, with an air of apology for the answer, "To seek education, if I am not."
no subject
"Some of those holes are quite glorious," he adds, tone shifting a bit more conciliatory, and when did he get quite close enough to clap Ortus on the shoulder in such a companionable way?
How can Ortus get away again without causing offense??His hand squeezes that doughy, monklike shoulder, quite firmly, although not quite painfully. (Maybe just a little bit too athletically for comfort.)"The way I see it, you've got a few options," Patience continues, still gripping poor Ortus's shoulder, smoking with his other hand. "Now, spray foam is not sealant — I wouldn't recommend counting on that to do anything good for you, especially not internally — but even if you don't want to replace all the warped boards — which is arguably the highest-quality fix, although it's also going to be the most time-intensive — you should still be able to find some nice faggots for the largest gaps, and once you've got them jammed into those holes as hard and deep as you can, you can caulk them in place the rest of the way."
This last part, unlike all those earlier parts, said with the straightest and kindliest of faces, of course.
no subject
There is no retreat he may make or resistance he may offer. His withdrawal is an internal one, sinking into numbness. His shoulder slackens, the bunching of perhaps unexpectedly sturdy musculature under his soft exterior giving way to limp passivity.
"Thank you, Holy Finger," he says, deferentially absent, a poppet animated by long practice, "I find myself with many unaccounted for hours, of late. I will endeavor to apply the highest quality of repair. I would not represent the Empire poorly, with haphazard work."
no subject
... Still, he's not going to let it stop him; the man clearly needs someone to encourage him to stand up for himself, shake out his vestments, learn to live a little under the skull paint, right?
(Isn't he the one with the terrible mother, after all? From what little Harrowhark said of the matter, he can't begin to think that she would have encouraged the boy to become a man, in the way of such things.)
"You as well, eh?" is offered conspiratorially, or almost affectionately — and then the Saint of Patience slings an arm around Ortus's shoulders, steering him back toward his (his!) shed, cigarette ashing itself into nothingness as it falls from his other hand (and never quite lands). "Let's see what you've got to commence repairs with, then! No time like the present!"