Herian, for her part, is sorry about Agathe taking his soup, and unhappy that such an action was taken on her behalf, and uncertain if it would be somehow an insult to offer her own soup to the stranger - an insult to him, but more importantly to Agathe, who had taken decisive action. She sits with the soup bowl cupped in her hands, and it seems an ill-done thing to eat when his food has been taken from him, and to set aside what Agathe has given her.
There are times when Herian wished the code could be a bit more specific to certain scenarios, instead of simply instilling in her the desire not to cause offence wantonly. Oh, what she would do in this present moment, for soup etiquette.
She allows her quiet displeasure to be swayed by her curiosity, though she makes no rush to repeat a word that she knows not the meaning of. "May I ask what that means?"
Shemlen, she assumes. Human. A word not always meant to cut, but that feels like a wound she cannot escape.
His question makes her brow raise a little, faintly surprised by his interest. "Clan Neirysa," she replies, easily, though tension inches up her spine, her shoulders drawing back and her entire body braced as her heart hammers painfully with it, and her lungs protest. The crisis remains entirely internal, a response of fear and horror and anger, as Herian thinks. "We either fell foul of the same clan on three separate occasions, or different clans. Never did they make themselves know through insignia nor introduction."
no subject
There are times when Herian wished the code could be a bit more specific to certain scenarios, instead of simply instilling in her the desire not to cause offence wantonly. Oh, what she would do in this present moment, for soup etiquette.
She allows her quiet displeasure to be swayed by her curiosity, though she makes no rush to repeat a word that she knows not the meaning of. "May I ask what that means?"
Shemlen, she assumes. Human. A word not always meant to cut, but that feels like a wound she cannot escape.
His question makes her brow raise a little, faintly surprised by his interest. "Clan Neirysa," she replies, easily, though tension inches up her spine, her shoulders drawing back and her entire body braced as her heart hammers painfully with it, and her lungs protest. The crisis remains entirely internal, a response of fear and horror and anger, as Herian thinks. "We either fell foul of the same clan on three separate occasions, or different clans. Never did they make themselves know through insignia nor introduction."