[ He is sturdy as stone beneath the fingers she curls gently at his arm, neither withdrawing nor lending himself too heavily into the touch. His is the arm of a man sworn to nobility, and unlikely to stray from it. Steady and obliging, neither giving nor taking. Operating from a sensible distance.
This is how he speaks of violence, too - as if it were a thing which need not cause lasting harm. Such kindly tolerance is akin to fighting with a blunted blade, with a wooden sword; what was the purpose? Why command great power if not to demonstrate it? Dungeons and stockades and gruesome scars were not without their use, but where one's own welfare was concerned, there was scarcely room to gamble with mercy. With the guards holding them hostage here, she would not hesitate, were the power her own. It would not come down to a matter of defense. Their lives would not be spared; the indignity alone of being transported this way has cost them that.
She takes a fuller accounting of him, standing closer now: the cool certainty which seems written upon his face, the capable build of his body, and the even meter of his voice. Not a bard's, not a pompous lord's, and not a septon's, either. Studious, but not weak-willed, she thinks. A scholar, but with a hand quickly turned to weaponry should the need arise. A light step guides her forward, the hand at his arm intending to keep him with her - she learned long ago that to linger too long in one spot is to invite eavesdropping ears. Who would deny them a humble stroll? ]
Are you in the habit of keeping prisoners, then? [ She cannot readily imagine him in the role of goaler, ruling over his collection of cells. Is he in the habit of simply fleeing his enemies, then? Has he so mastered the art of speech that he has acquired none? She is, for the moment, piqued most by how he defines himself, and how it separates them on the most basic level. ]
You would have me believe that your people are not human? Where do you hail from, where the truth is revered above beauty? You'll forgive me for being skeptical to believe that such a place exists.
no subject
This is how he speaks of violence, too - as if it were a thing which need not cause lasting harm. Such kindly tolerance is akin to fighting with a blunted blade, with a wooden sword; what was the purpose? Why command great power if not to demonstrate it? Dungeons and stockades and gruesome scars were not without their use, but where one's own welfare was concerned, there was scarcely room to gamble with mercy. With the guards holding them hostage here, she would not hesitate, were the power her own. It would not come down to a matter of defense. Their lives would not be spared; the indignity alone of being transported this way has cost them that.
She takes a fuller accounting of him, standing closer now: the cool certainty which seems written upon his face, the capable build of his body, and the even meter of his voice. Not a bard's, not a pompous lord's, and not a septon's, either. Studious, but not weak-willed, she thinks. A scholar, but with a hand quickly turned to weaponry should the need arise. A light step guides her forward, the hand at his arm intending to keep him with her - she learned long ago that to linger too long in one spot is to invite eavesdropping ears. Who would deny them a humble stroll? ]
Are you in the habit of keeping prisoners, then? [ She cannot readily imagine him in the role of goaler, ruling over his collection of cells. Is he in the habit of simply fleeing his enemies, then? Has he so mastered the art of speech that he has acquired none? She is, for the moment, piqued most by how he defines himself, and how it separates them on the most basic level. ]
You would have me believe that your people are not human? Where do you hail from, where the truth is revered above beauty? You'll forgive me for being skeptical to believe that such a place exists.