[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.
Something tells me they're not going to put in a bell.
[Just a hunch, unless Gideon decided it was funny, but that doesn't seem like her particular brand. He thinks, also, that no one asked for his service for the obvious reason of not wanting him to serve, but he says nothing to this point— maybe Ninth dynamics are more fraught than he previously judged, and the history there subverts expectations.
Who can say. What he can say, and perhaps should be careful about saying, is,] He likes her. The Emperor, and Harrow. He told me she "humors" him, whatever that means.
[And he thinks about God's Own Study, and how Harrow must surely enjoy it, in her way. Hmm.]
Maybe they could help you with your repairs. A stylish bone door would liven up the place.
[Ortus is quite still when the young Warden makes his carefully off-handed comment about the Emperor's stated affection for Harrow. He does not narrow his eyes, nor flex his hands within the confines of his sleeves. Such gestures would be mere posturings from him. It is only at his temples that the slight tightening of his jaw flutters visibly, betrayed by soft tissue underneath the illusion of stark bone.]
I would hesitate to invite either of them to any labor of construction. [Despite that, when he turns to the concept of a bone door, he manages a faint wryness.] And I suppose that if my Lady desired a bell as we had at Drearburh, she has had ample time to seek one out.
[Or perhaps she has not felt she had the right to ask. It is sometimes difficult to predict when Harrowhark will insist on certain matters, and when she will not. He imagines that Gideon feels no particular nostalgia for the sound.]
Lady Harrowhark has always had an aptitude for devotion. Even as a child, she oft put others' piety to shame. [He produces a hand from his sleeve to gesture ever so slightly at himself, as an example.] I hope our Lord did not call it 'humoring' in her presence.
[Hoo boy, he thinks, which is the best he can think when faced with the inexorable truth that Piety is an insurmountable wall, apparently. He purses his lips; he resolves to adapt a healthy resignation to that, and not mumble any sacrileges, if only because he likes Harrow and her piety is just something that's going to happen.
It kind of shortens the list of wholly appropriate conversation topics, namely Harrow, but he'll handle it. Odd to think that Ortus Nigenad might be someone he straight doesn't know how to talk to, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. Hmm.]
No; he only said it to me. I didn't say it to her, either, if you're worried about that. Harrow's— devotion is between her and God, I figure.
[A real shame!! He's past it. He's not. He's maintaining a carefully balanced neutrality, as competently as he can.]
Anyway, that's a non-starter. I heard you're a writer, meanwhile. What's your genre?
[The Ninth House survives on secrets and deception, the far flung opposite of the Sixth. The things which are not spoken of are the things that hold up the walls of their unhallowed House, more than the mere stone into which they are hewed.
It is the first kind of protection Ortus learned. It is the best he can extend to the young man he is putting so ill at ease in his presence. So he only closes his eyes at Palamedes' mention of Harrow's devotion, his head bowing under the weight of unvoiced thoughts.]
So it is.
[It is absolutely not. God's 'liking' of Harrow, her desperation of faith towards Him, are matters Ortus has no intention of leaving between them.]
Your discretion is a kindness to her. [That, he judges allowable, his tone gentling.] I thank you for it.
As for my writing, I am a poet, in the classical style. My primary composition has been the Noniad, an epic depicting the life of Matthias Nonius, a noble cavalier and hero of our House. I have delved into other styles, but none so deeply. [Then, with a frisson of unreadable intensity:] Are you a reader of poetry, Master Warden?
[Hm, yes - there's plenty of unpacked items left in there, mostly about Harrow and God, but more importantly Harrow. Palamedes' pointed, practiced neutrality about God and his Awful Business is a thing he's likely to revisit in due time, but for now - well.
For Gideon and Harrow and Paul (and Kaworu, although he knows marginally less there) to live in a real house with a comparatively better level of warmth and care than the usual, Palamedes can stop telling God to go fuck himself. Probably.]
Sure, [he says, to the thanks, and quirks a brief smile for it.] Of course. We're friends.
[@ harrow endure his friendship ty]
Are you familiar with the popular poetry style of the Sixth? [uhhhh haha-] It's mostly erotic.
[But did he still read it, even if it was for the thot corps, yes indeed.]
[The casualness with which Palamedes call Harrow a friend strikes Ortus between the fourth and fifth ribs of his left side, perfusing his pericardial cavity with an intrusive and unfamiliar ache. His mouth moves in a soft downward bow, not saddened, but as if a taut string idly plucked by a passing hand.
It is fortunate for all parties involved that the young Warden proceeds to a much less awkward topic than that of friends, and Harrow's grim paucity thereof: the lurid poetry of the Sixth. Ortus is grateful for the protective layer of his paint as his cheeks warm and his eyes drop away to a fascinating shadow on the side of his shed.]
I am familiar. [A polite hem of a cleared throat.] There were several works that an archivist of the Sixth was willing to transcribe for me, as they referenced the subject of my work. They were...illuminatingly descriptive.
[Perhaps if he blasphemes now, divine retribution will act as his salvation. He entertains the thought for a passing moment.]
If the style of Sixth poetry is best known to you, might I suggest the poetry of the Seventh? It is not wholly dissimilar in composition, though...differently florid.
[Haha, oh, the poor Ninth and their ascetic everything. Would that every Ninth scion could be as open about the joys of unabashedly horny media as Gideon. Palamedes decides not to; instead he nods, as if Ortus' polite glance aside is not akin to visibly steaming out of the ears from any other House.
He thinks for a moment, hand tucked under his chin, then with a snap of his fingers:]
Oh— 'All Entrancing Beside the Vapors and the Metacarpals' had to have been in there, correct? I never liked the 'Vapors' addition, it always seemed trite to me. That's a fairly early piece in the canon, and not usually picked for the off-world set. Maybe if the Ninth welcomed more visitors.
["If the Ninth wanted to give the hardest battles to our sexiest soldiers," that is.]
Anyway, I know plenty of Seventh poetry, though only filtered through the Lady Septimus' personal tastes. 'Differently florid' is a spectacularly apt description.
[Palamedes has found the hidden key to Ortus' passions: tetchy literary criticism. He pivots back to the conversation with alacrity, nodding along. He even acknowledges the unfortunate lack of visitors to the Ninth with downswept lashes and a mild, colorless hm of concurrence.
He's braced for the mention of the Lady Septimus. He does not betray recognition, although it grieves him to do so. This is not the time or the place to speak of her specifically, and not without discussion of the matter with his own lady.
But he does allow himself to recall her, a woman so vivid that she reclaimed her life after death, and perhaps there is an especial sympathy between them for that. He cannot help but extend some of it to the young man before him.]
It was. Despite the reliance on formula, I will grant that Vapors provided a thorough catalog of the body armor typical of the time period, although [it must be the pollen, making him clear his throat so often] in the context of speculation on its removal.
As for the Seventh, there are exceptions. Some poets of the House favor a return to sparser forms, which I had little opportunity to explore.
I assume you are familiar with the Archives here. I am amazed at the breadth of their collection, including volumes from our own Empire...if you were to have any further suggestions for my reading, I would be obliged to you, Warden.
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deercountry2022-04-13 04:55 pm
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[Just a hunch, unless Gideon decided it was funny, but that doesn't seem like her particular brand. He thinks, also, that no one asked for his service for the obvious reason of not wanting him to serve, but he says nothing to this point— maybe Ninth dynamics are more fraught than he previously judged, and the history there subverts expectations.
Who can say. What he can say, and perhaps should be careful about saying, is,] He likes her. The Emperor, and Harrow. He told me she "humors" him, whatever that means.
[And he thinks about God's Own Study, and how Harrow must surely enjoy it, in her way. Hmm.]
Maybe they could help you with your repairs. A stylish bone door would liven up the place.
no subject
I would hesitate to invite either of them to any labor of construction. [Despite that, when he turns to the concept of a bone door, he manages a faint wryness.] And I suppose that if my Lady desired a bell as we had at Drearburh, she has had ample time to seek one out.
[Or perhaps she has not felt she had the right to ask. It is sometimes difficult to predict when Harrowhark will insist on certain matters, and when she will not. He imagines that Gideon feels no particular nostalgia for the sound.]
Lady Harrowhark has always had an aptitude for devotion. Even as a child, she oft put others' piety to shame. [He produces a hand from his sleeve to gesture ever so slightly at himself, as an example.] I hope our Lord did not call it 'humoring' in her presence.
no subject
It kind of shortens the list of wholly appropriate conversation topics, namely Harrow, but he'll handle it. Odd to think that Ortus Nigenad might be someone he straight doesn't know how to talk to, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. Hmm.]
No; he only said it to me. I didn't say it to her, either, if you're worried about that. Harrow's— devotion is between her and God, I figure.
[A real shame!! He's past it. He's not. He's maintaining a carefully balanced neutrality, as competently as he can.]
Anyway, that's a non-starter. I heard you're a writer, meanwhile. What's your genre?
no subject
It is the first kind of protection Ortus learned. It is the best he can extend to the young man he is putting so ill at ease in his presence. So he only closes his eyes at Palamedes' mention of Harrow's devotion, his head bowing under the weight of unvoiced thoughts.]
So it is.
[It is absolutely not. God's 'liking' of Harrow, her desperation of faith towards Him, are matters Ortus has no intention of leaving between them.]
Your discretion is a kindness to her. [That, he judges allowable, his tone gentling.] I thank you for it.
As for my writing, I am a poet, in the classical style. My primary composition has been the Noniad, an epic depicting the life of Matthias Nonius, a noble cavalier and hero of our House. I have delved into other styles, but none so deeply. [Then, with a frisson of unreadable intensity:] Are you a reader of poetry, Master Warden?
no subject
For Gideon and Harrow and Paul (and Kaworu, although he knows marginally less there) to live in a real house with a comparatively better level of warmth and care than the usual, Palamedes can stop telling God to go fuck himself. Probably.]
Sure, [he says, to the thanks, and quirks a brief smile for it.] Of course. We're friends.
[@ harrow endure his friendship ty]
Are you familiar with the popular poetry style of the Sixth? [uhhhh haha-] It's mostly erotic.
[But did he still read it, even if it was for the thot corps, yes indeed.]
I would love to delve into something else.
no subject
It is fortunate for all parties involved that the young Warden proceeds to a much less awkward topic than that of friends, and Harrow's grim paucity thereof: the lurid poetry of the Sixth. Ortus is grateful for the protective layer of his paint as his cheeks warm and his eyes drop away to a fascinating shadow on the side of his shed.]
I am familiar. [A polite hem of a cleared throat.] There were several works that an archivist of the Sixth was willing to transcribe for me, as they referenced the subject of my work. They were...illuminatingly descriptive.
[Perhaps if he blasphemes now, divine retribution will act as his salvation. He entertains the thought for a passing moment.]
If the style of Sixth poetry is best known to you, might I suggest the poetry of the Seventh? It is not wholly dissimilar in composition, though...differently florid.
no subject
He thinks for a moment, hand tucked under his chin, then with a snap of his fingers:]
Oh— 'All Entrancing Beside the Vapors and the Metacarpals' had to have been in there, correct? I never liked the 'Vapors' addition, it always seemed trite to me. That's a fairly early piece in the canon, and not usually picked for the off-world set. Maybe if the Ninth welcomed more visitors.
["If the Ninth wanted to give the hardest battles to our sexiest soldiers," that is.]
Anyway, I know plenty of Seventh poetry, though only filtered through the Lady Septimus' personal tastes. 'Differently florid' is a spectacularly apt description.
no subject
He's braced for the mention of the Lady Septimus. He does not betray recognition, although it grieves him to do so. This is not the time or the place to speak of her specifically, and not without discussion of the matter with his own lady.
But he does allow himself to recall her, a woman so vivid that she reclaimed her life after death, and perhaps there is an especial sympathy between them for that. He cannot help but extend some of it to the young man before him.]
It was. Despite the reliance on formula, I will grant that Vapors provided a thorough catalog of the body armor typical of the time period, although [it must be the pollen, making him clear his throat so often] in the context of speculation on its removal.
As for the Seventh, there are exceptions. Some poets of the House favor a return to sparser forms, which I had little opportunity to explore.
I assume you are familiar with the Archives here. I am amazed at the breadth of their collection, including volumes from our own Empire...if you were to have any further suggestions for my reading, I would be obliged to you, Warden.