After this exchange, and a brief intermission while Leander readies himself to exit camp—it's difficult to fuss over one's hair without a mirror, but he consoles himself with the knowledge that everyone else looks rumpled and sweaty—it may also be worth noting that he doesn't care whether or not Poesia needs to prepare likewise; if not, she'll simply have to wait—anyway, finally, the two of them convene in some convenient place.
Maker, she's tall, isn't she? He's not precisely short, himself, but still—
Poesia's preparations are far more brief, but she waits placidly enough. Even rumpled and sweaty, she still has her normal lazy grace and casual elegance, no less at home in this jungle than she was in the Gallows.
She brightens with genuine delight when she sees him, immediately stepping close to lightly brush her fingers against his jaw in a gesture that is perhaps too easy and intimate for their acquaintance, "Hello, sweet, you're looking charming. I'm quite ready, I believe. Really I can't imagine how one might prepare to begin with, given the current state of things."
And with that chatter, she sets off into the jungle.
Too intimate? Perhaps. He bears it with a little smile, and a little questioning wrinkle between his eyebrows, and manages not to look at all aggrieved by the sudden entry into his personal space. Which he is, if only mildly. It's the confident ease in his bearing that does most of the work there. They're similar in that regard—among others, most likely.
"What does one bring on a tropical souvenir hunt?" A rhetorical question. Obviously you bring a knife. "Watch your feet, now, there'll be roots here."
And the odd spider strand crossing the path now and then. He doesn't bother to warn for those.
If the questioning wrinkle is noted (briefly in passing, dismissable since it is followed by neither kiss nor blow), it's certainly not commented upon.
"A knife, of course!" A cheerful answer to a rhetorical question. She navigates her way over the roots easily enough, paying very little mind to the spider strands as they cross her path. "I suppose one would normally bring a jar or basket or some such, but I hadn't the slightest idea where I could find one of those."
She bends over to examine a mushroom before plucking it and holding it up to him. "Do you suppose this is the poisonous ones or the ones you can eat? I had a charming fellow ask me to find certain ones, you know, but I must say I can't really tell the difference."
Leander is quietly appreciating the lack of webs in his face when suddenly: fungus. He stops short, briefly jerks his chin toward his neck. Less surprise, more what the—
"It's not really my area," he says, staring at the little mushroom while its details gradually unfurl for his attention, the way nature's prettiest little things always do. "But this one is rather cute, isn't it. May I?" Hold it, he means, which he will only do once he's fished a glove out of his satchel. "Which of our charming fellows made this request?"
"It's terribly cute!" she agrees wholeheartedly, handing the fungus to him once he has his glove on. She is far less concerned, simply whipping her hand on her trousers when she stands. "Goodness, let me see. I don't believe I got the gentleman's name... I suppose one ought to pay attention to that sort of thing-" She isn't going to, but she is aware at least, "But he did have the most distinctive accent. I believe Ozammarian? Is that what the underground dwarves are called?"
"Yes, I believe so." A drone of distraction; he is less interested in man than mushroom. With a soft tut of appreciation, "It's just darling, but I'm afraid all I can say about it is that you probably shouldn't eat it, just to be safe. Unless you're intent on taking a stand against common sense, in which case: by all means."
Handing it back, "I prefer them a little larger, personally."
"That's a pity," she says with a sigh, dropping the mushroom back on the ground and then looking around to beam at him, "You're terribly clever, sweet! I'm so glad you've come along with me. Shall I find a larger mushroom for you?"
Because they're friends now, so obviously one must give a new friend a gift!
"What a kindly thought. If you see one, I'd certainly like to have a look—but let's leave them where they are, shall we? We are the guests here, after all."
He decides he enjoys the idea of being a mushroom's guest, imagines a vignette of tea and polite fungal company. It's the sort of thing the others would find strange, or funny—more so in his early teens, that age of rampant social cruelty...
Anyway. Where Poesia goes, for now, he will follow.
"I suppose you're right. And our hosts have been very obliging to offer us so much entertainment!"
She smiles back at him with earnest delight, before forging a path forward. Poesia moves through the jungle without any particular caution, not graceless, but very much like the predators who know their exact place on the food chain. She follows a faint trail, slowing down as they reach the edge of a little clearing.
"Oooh... Do come and see this, sweet!" she says, voice softer and an excited energy thrumming under her skin. Through the brushes shielding them is the shambling remains of a camp.
Well, that's a promising tone, at least—and when he emerges from the foliage, he sounds much the same.
"Oh, my."
How awful, or how inspiring? There's no way to tell. It's practice turned second nature to become reserved when a fascination appears in unfamiliar company. Good for providing a note of hesitance to those ears who might expect it of a bookish mage.
How inspiring might not be amiss with the way Poesia has begun prowling around, looking every bit the curious predator.
"Goodness, they did meet a most unpleasant fate." And with very little ado, she grabs the ankles of one of the bodies sticking out of a collapsed tent and tugs it out. It's withered and dry, mouth open wide in a gaping scream. "How long do you suppose they've been here?"
is no louder than his usual, but firmly spoken, with an authority he has not often exercised since his joining of the outfit called Riftwatch. A return to his gentle timbre, then:
"Treat them kindly."
Thus heard, he approaches the ruined tent to have a better look at the remains. The little bit of scalp still clinging, the rags, what passes for dry in this wretched tropical humidity. "In this climate, weeks, perhaps. I'd guess a month or more. They ought to've been pulled apart by scavenging wildlife." Poisoned? A virulent sting, or something they ate?
And Poesia is nothing if not well trained to responding to a firm hand. She settles immediately, hands dropping from the corpse's ankles to settle on her thighs. She'd crouched a bit and now looks up at him with a mild pout. There is the distinct air of a dog whose been whacked on the nose with a rolled up paper and is largely puzzled by it.
When the conversation doesn't continue, and the woman doesn't rise, Leander turns again to look at her. Two little creases have formed between his eyebrows. Perhaps he and Poesia look at each other for several seconds before he asks,
"What are you doing?"
Edited (people not eyebrows) 2020-08-06 05:31 (UTC)
"Waiting," she says, as though it were very obvious, "You sounded as though you had orders." But since those aren't forth coming, she pushes herself up, dusting her knees off thoughtfully. "What a pity I didn't know you better, you've a lovely voice."
And then she surveys the destroyed camp and says, "Do you suppose it was poison of some sort? I can't imagine why they wouldn't have been eaten otherwise."
Leander's stare lingers for some seconds; the knot in his brow, too, now more thoughtfully. Is it really that simple? (Is she really that simple?)
Back to the bodies, then. "Could've been. Disease, perhaps. In any case, the insects seem to've liked them just fine." The way he clears his throat here may be described as delicate. "What does my voice have to do with it?"
She very much wants to take the bodies apart, like they used to in the Drakeling nests, but as there are no Drakelings to coddle and the sweet boy had given her an order, she sets the urge aside.
She hums and tips her head, thinking. "I find it charming. I like that you sound very soft most of the time, but your order was very clear and strong." Poesia gives him a sunny smile, "I do prefer a firm hand at my collar, you see."
"Ah. I do remember hearing you say something to that effect, now that you mention it."
Over the crystals, transmitting to all. The compulsion to be so indiscreet outside of any special circumstance is difficult to imagine of himself; he can only regard it from a distance and wonder at it. While he's at it, he regards Poesia herself, like she's only just registered in his awareness as something more than furniture. It isn't a subtle look; he needn't bother.
"Is that desire always so near the forefront of your mind?"
"Of course not," she says with a sweet laugh, as though that were the funniest question she's ever heard. She taps her chin thoughtfully. "It's more hearing a tune you think is familiar at first, until you listen properly and realize it's not. I would be very poorly made indeed if I were to be so focused on something like that."
He's right, of course, that it's needless to hide the way he looks at her. She returns his look with bemused curiosity. She can't begin to fathom what's caught his attention about her, but that's hardly a surprise. It's not her place to know such things.
It's a very worthwhile hand! It is the hand of a Venatori interrogator. One might have called him a torturer, but I can't say he was especially good at the job. He did talk a great deal, though.
And I haven't thought of what to do with it yet, aside from preserving it. I've been told pickling serves very well.
That is true, there are. But I would hope to find some clever people in the midst of a group that is at war. There wouldn't be much of an organization left otherwise, correct?
Goodness, I suppose there wouldn't be. But you know, not everyone is meant to be clever and this is where it becomes puzzling. Because there are so many clever people and so many who would be well suited to rule, but none who claim a singular title.
I'm terribly shocked there hasn't been a coup of some sort by now.
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a probably ill-advised walk in the jungle
Maker, she's tall, isn't she? He's not precisely short, himself, but still—
"All ready?"
a lovely stroll!!
She brightens with genuine delight when she sees him, immediately stepping close to lightly brush her fingers against his jaw in a gesture that is perhaps too easy and intimate for their acquaintance, "Hello, sweet, you're looking charming. I'm quite ready, I believe. Really I can't imagine how one might prepare to begin with, given the current state of things."
And with that chatter, she sets off into the jungle.
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"What does one bring on a tropical souvenir hunt?" A rhetorical question. Obviously you bring a knife. "Watch your feet, now, there'll be roots here."
And the odd spider strand crossing the path now and then. He doesn't bother to warn for those.
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"A knife, of course!" A cheerful answer to a rhetorical question. She navigates her way over the roots easily enough, paying very little mind to the spider strands as they cross her path. "I suppose one would normally bring a jar or basket or some such, but I hadn't the slightest idea where I could find one of those."
She bends over to examine a mushroom before plucking it and holding it up to him. "Do you suppose this is the poisonous ones or the ones you can eat? I had a charming fellow ask me to find certain ones, you know, but I must say I can't really tell the difference."
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"It's not really my area," he says, staring at the little mushroom while its details gradually unfurl for his attention, the way nature's prettiest little things always do. "But this one is rather cute, isn't it. May I?" Hold it, he means, which he will only do once he's fished a glove out of his satchel. "Which of our charming fellows made this request?"
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Handing it back, "I prefer them a little larger, personally."
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Because they're friends now, so obviously one must give a new friend a gift!
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He decides he enjoys the idea of being a mushroom's guest, imagines a vignette of tea and polite fungal company. It's the sort of thing the others would find strange, or funny—more so in his early teens, that age of rampant social cruelty...
Anyway. Where Poesia goes, for now, he will follow.
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She smiles back at him with earnest delight, before forging a path forward. Poesia moves through the jungle without any particular caution, not graceless, but very much like the predators who know their exact place on the food chain. She follows a faint trail, slowing down as they reach the edge of a little clearing.
"Oooh... Do come and see this, sweet!" she says, voice softer and an excited energy thrumming under her skin. Through the brushes shielding them is the shambling remains of a camp.
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"Oh, my."
How awful, or how inspiring? There's no way to tell. It's practice turned second nature to become reserved when a fascination appears in unfamiliar company. Good for providing a note of hesitance to those ears who might expect it of a bookish mage.
"Oh dear, the clothes—is that a body?"
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"Goodness, they did meet a most unpleasant fate." And with very little ado, she grabs the ankles of one of the bodies sticking out of a collapsed tent and tugs it out. It's withered and dry, mouth open wide in a gaping scream. "How long do you suppose they've been here?"
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is no louder than his usual, but firmly spoken, with an authority he has not often exercised since his joining of the outfit called Riftwatch. A return to his gentle timbre, then:
"Treat them kindly."
Thus heard, he approaches the ruined tent to have a better look at the remains. The little bit of scalp still clinging, the rags, what passes for dry in this wretched tropical humidity. "In this climate, weeks, perhaps. I'd guess a month or more. They ought to've been pulled apart by scavenging wildlife." Poisoned? A virulent sting, or something they ate?
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"What are you doing?"
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And then she surveys the destroyed camp and says, "Do you suppose it was poison of some sort? I can't imagine why they wouldn't have been eaten otherwise."
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Leander's stare lingers for some seconds; the knot in his brow, too, now more thoughtfully. Is it really that simple? (Is she really that simple?)
Back to the bodies, then. "Could've been. Disease, perhaps. In any case, the insects seem to've liked them just fine." The way he clears his throat here may be described as delicate. "What does my voice have to do with it?"
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She hums and tips her head, thinking. "I find it charming. I like that you sound very soft most of the time, but your order was very clear and strong." Poesia gives him a sunny smile, "I do prefer a firm hand at my collar, you see."
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Over the crystals, transmitting to all. The compulsion to be so indiscreet outside of any special circumstance is difficult to imagine of himself; he can only regard it from a distance and wonder at it. While he's at it, he regards Poesia herself, like she's only just registered in his awareness as something more than furniture. It isn't a subtle look; he needn't bother.
"Is that desire always so near the forefront of your mind?"
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He's right, of course, that it's needless to hide the way he looks at her. She returns his look with bemused curiosity. She can't begin to fathom what's caught his attention about her, but that's hardly a surprise. It's not her place to know such things.
crystal / backdated a lil bit
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I was more curious with what you planned to do with it? I suppose a hand is not as exciting as a dragon, but it is still interesting.
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And I haven't thought of what to do with it yet, aside from preserving it. I've been told pickling serves very well.
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It's was most delightful and well worth remembering.
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I'm terribly shocked there hasn't been a coup of some sort by now.
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You are so certain of that? Suppose there is someone out here who could best you?
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Why, then I'd most certainly die! But I hardly see why that should change my convictions.
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