WHO: Étienne, Kostos, and anyone who would like to stop and/or watch some unnecessary violence WHAT: Interpersonal conflict resolution WHEN: Nowish WHERE: The Templar dining hall in the Gallows NOTES: cw: punching; context
Nell shrugs at Marisol's question. "No idea. Some Orlesian fuck from the sound of it."
She still makes no effort to get involved, not with Priest hovering and Wysteria fussing. Kostos can wipe his own bloody nose. She does, however, spot a bowl of soup abandoned on the table just behind her, and twists to take it up, blowing on a spoonful before eating.
"You know there are fights every night at half the taverns in Lowtown," she points out to the apparently-bloodthirsty Byerly a bit dryly. "He's," she gestures at her fellow Nevarran, "Even in some of them."
Kostos half turns his head at the boos, an ear toward the source, which puts Evrion back into his field of vision. For a moment he feels—something. A hunger pang in the empty space where shame should be, to have let his control slip that far in front of an apprentice.
But then Étienne talks again. A smooth shirt and a smile. Easy as that. Maybe it could be that easy for Kostos, too, if he put in any practice, but he hasn’t ever, and he won’t now.
To wit: “You can go fuck yourself,” he says, dark and quiet, while he climbs back up onto his feet unassisted, “as peacefully as you want.”
The desired effect might be mitigated somewhat by the fact that his bloody nose leaves him sounding congested and, upon reaching a standing position, he briefly lists to one side before managing to manually rediscover his balance.
When Kostos meets his eyes, Evrion hops to his feet and comes over to duck under his former tutor's arm, helping him catch his balance after it falters.
"D'you want some elfroot tea, Enchanter?" he asks quietly, with a crooked grin, "you'll be feeling that chair tomorrow."
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She still makes no effort to get involved, not with Priest hovering and Wysteria fussing. Kostos can wipe his own bloody nose. She does, however, spot a bowl of soup abandoned on the table just behind her, and twists to take it up, blowing on a spoonful before eating.
"You know there are fights every night at half the taverns in Lowtown," she points out to the apparently-bloodthirsty Byerly a bit dryly. "He's," she gestures at her fellow Nevarran, "Even in some of them."
no subject
But then Étienne talks again. A smooth shirt and a smile. Easy as that. Maybe it could be that easy for Kostos, too, if he put in any practice, but he hasn’t ever, and he won’t now.
To wit: “You can go fuck yourself,” he says, dark and quiet, while he climbs back up onto his feet unassisted, “as peacefully as you want.”
The desired effect might be mitigated somewhat by the fact that his bloody nose leaves him sounding congested and, upon reaching a standing position, he briefly lists to one side before managing to manually rediscover his balance.
He does not shake Étienne's fucking hand.
no subject
"D'you want some elfroot tea, Enchanter?" he asks quietly, with a crooked grin, "you'll be feeling that chair tomorrow."