No one is following them. But there are highwaymen, opportunists, wild animals—plenty of reasons for a watch rotation, and Kostos takes his turn in the last stretch before dawn. He alternates between staring at the sky and stalking restlessly around the perimeter of the camp while a pair of wisps trail behind him. Or trail behind him part of the way and then get sidetracked by looking at the bark on a tree.
He isn't in the mood. He's cold, he's damp from the lingering drizzle, he's stuck in a mental loop imagining a comeuppance that Lac-Vide will never actually get and that he'd be sorry if they did. But they're curious, excited, and incorrigible, so when they stop he stops, too, and sulks against a tree while they get it out of their systems.
less early.
The rain has let up by the time they start getting ready to leave again, at least, and he packs his—Riftwatch's—horse with practiced speed. "Is there anything we cannot live without before we reach Val Royeaux?" he asks whoever is nearest. "If we have to stop at one of these fucking villages again, we should split up and keep the staves out of sight."
"They're awfully cute." Kitty isn't on watch, but she's not sleeping, either. Instead she sits with her legs drawn up to her, elbows on her knees, huddled in on herself to try to trap some bit of warmth. She looks tired, but there's a faint warmth on her face - a sort of fondness that other people direct towards a pretty bird or a curious little cat.
"They are only slightly smarter than rocks," Kostos answers, but under the dour insult there might be some faint fondness of his own. Without detaching from the tree he's leaning against, he rolls a little bit in her direction so he can see her properly. "You should really sleep."
She shrugs back at him. "Not exactly that easy, is it. No one ever got commanded to sleep." She pauses for a moment, then amends, "Except by hypnotists, I suppose. But people who pretend to get hypnotized are just faking, anyway."
Then she tilts her head to the side slightly. "Have they got personalities?"
“Barely,” Kostos says, but after a moment he relents. “They are mostly curious. Excitable.” He pokes his chin toward the nearest one, the one that’s humming at the tree bark. “That one is interested because the tree does not move. And that one—” whirling in circles overhead with increasing speed “—is on thin ice, if it does not want to go back.”
She puts her elbows on her knees and watches a moment. Then - "Do you like them?" Almost immediately, she wrinkles her nose, because: "I know that sounds stupid. But - you know what I mean. You treat them like they're real things."
He does like them. He understands them; he knows what they're feeling, no guessing and no lies, and for a few years of his childhood they were frequently the only company he would tolerate.
All things he would rather shove his feet into the fire than say out loud. He'd prefer to eye Kitty like he's waiting on an explanation for why she might think otherwise—one he does attempt to prompt, if not ask for outright, with, "There were—spirits where you came from. You said."
"Mm." She settles down a bit, placing her chin on her knees, watching the wisps as they float. "Yeah. Not really like these, though. The ones back home - they'd talk to you. They all had...life, and intelligence, and personalities. Free will, even if they were never allowed to use it."
For a moment, she hesitates. Then - Well. It's Kostos. Kostos is all right. He looks at these spirits, little tiny bits of nothingness, with affection; he nurtures them. It's all right to talk to him about this sort of stuff. "Have you ever met Bartimaeus? He's sort of an expert on them. On spirits. You might ask him sometime."
Then he realizes that he's not talking to just anyone. Few days out in the field and he's fallen into the mode of camp complaint, where you can say things like these tents are shit or when will we stop getting stale tack for breakfast or if I've got to hear that arsebiscuit snoring one more night I'll cut his throat, and it's a general rumble of camaraderie that is all right, even in mixed company. Only here, Matthias has committed the critical error of having spoken his wish aloud to Enchanter Averesch, without meaning to.
What's the difference? Well, they're not exactly comrades in arms, are they, and he mostly wants very badly to impress Enchanter Averesch, which means being cool and not complaining. And he's not properly complaining, but it's not as if Enchanter Averesch will know that he's not properly complaining. Enchanter, or: whatever title would be appropriate. Is there a title that would be considered appropriate? What does decorum and title matter anymore--only, really, then again, people did a lot to earn them, so perhaps they do matter--but if they were granted under an old system that's defunct or really burnt to the ground, then, really, does it matter. But perhaps it's better to err on the side of being respectful, even if only in his head, because if he actually said it aloud Averesch might look at him in some way.
And all of this thinking goes on in about two second's time, as the horror of his stupid trite confession spreads a numbness through him. And, well, okay. His socks are rather squashy.
He tries a grin on. Feels all right. Perfectly self-deprecating, an easy balance to strike, because he feels like such a tit right now. "And a palace with a massive fireplace. Only joking. I can live without anything. Have we really got to go into Val Royeaux?"
Edited (sorry i got precious about punctuation E:) 2019-10-16 00:56 (UTC)
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open. theoretically.
No one is following them. But there are highwaymen, opportunists, wild animals—plenty of reasons for a watch rotation, and Kostos takes his turn in the last stretch before dawn. He alternates between staring at the sky and stalking restlessly around the perimeter of the camp while a pair of wisps trail behind him. Or trail behind him part of the way and then get sidetracked by looking at the bark on a tree.
He isn't in the mood. He's cold, he's damp from the lingering drizzle, he's stuck in a mental loop imagining a comeuppance that Lac-Vide will never actually get and that he'd be sorry if they did. But they're curious, excited, and incorrigible, so when they stop he stops, too, and sulks against a tree while they get it out of their systems.
less early.
The rain has let up by the time they start getting ready to leave again, at least, and he packs his—Riftwatch's—horse with practiced speed. "Is there anything we cannot live without before we reach Val Royeaux?" he asks whoever is nearest. "If we have to stop at one of these fucking villages again, we should split up and keep the staves out of sight."
early. theoretically.
no subject
no subject
Then she tilts her head to the side slightly. "Have they got personalities?"
no subject
The whirl slows to a chastened drift.
no subject
She puts her elbows on her knees and watches a moment. Then - "Do you like them?" Almost immediately, she wrinkles her nose, because: "I know that sounds stupid. But - you know what I mean. You treat them like they're real things."
no subject
He does like them. He understands them; he knows what they're feeling, no guessing and no lies, and for a few years of his childhood they were frequently the only company he would tolerate.
All things he would rather shove his feet into the fire than say out loud. He'd prefer to eye Kitty like he's waiting on an explanation for why she might think otherwise—one he does attempt to prompt, if not ask for outright, with, "There were—spirits where you came from. You said."
no subject
For a moment, she hesitates. Then - Well. It's Kostos. Kostos is all right. He looks at these spirits, little tiny bits of nothingness, with affection; he nurtures them. It's all right to talk to him about this sort of stuff. "Have you ever met Bartimaeus? He's sort of an expert on them. On spirits. You might ask him sometime."
kicks the theoretical to the curb
Then he realizes that he's not talking to just anyone. Few days out in the field and he's fallen into the mode of camp complaint, where you can say things like these tents are shit or when will we stop getting stale tack for breakfast or if I've got to hear that arsebiscuit snoring one more night I'll cut his throat, and it's a general rumble of camaraderie that is all right, even in mixed company. Only here, Matthias has committed the critical error of having spoken his wish aloud to Enchanter Averesch, without meaning to.
What's the difference? Well, they're not exactly comrades in arms, are they, and he mostly wants very badly to impress Enchanter Averesch, which means being cool and not complaining. And he's not properly complaining, but it's not as if Enchanter Averesch will know that he's not properly complaining. Enchanter, or: whatever title would be appropriate. Is there a title that would be considered appropriate? What does decorum and title matter anymore--only, really, then again, people did a lot to earn them, so perhaps they do matter--but if they were granted under an old system that's defunct or really burnt to the ground, then, really, does it matter. But perhaps it's better to err on the side of being respectful, even if only in his head, because if he actually said it aloud Averesch might look at him in some way.
And all of this thinking goes on in about two second's time, as the horror of his stupid trite confession spreads a numbness through him. And, well, okay. His socks are rather squashy.
He tries a grin on. Feels all right. Perfectly self-deprecating, an easy balance to strike, because he feels like such a tit right now. "And a palace with a massive fireplace. Only joking. I can live without anything. Have we really got to go into Val Royeaux?"