WHO: Fitcher, Marcoulf, Bartimaeus (+) & YOU WHAT: Ye Olde Catch'all WHEN: Nowish WHERE: Kirkwall, The Gallows, le Misc. NOTES: Starters in comments; if you want something/someone who isn't here, just hit me up and I'll scrape something together.
Mhavos does not smoke, but he's considering taking up the hobby, just so that staying indoors for the coming winter will become more tolerable. And yet, here he is, fiddling with a deck of cards instead of working or smoking.
He looks up with a curious eye, sees the speaker, and his expression softens. "Alas, no." He looks over to the fireplace. "I could set something alight and bring it do you, but I'm not sure how much good that would do."
"A shame. And we have such a good track record with setting things just the right amount of on fire."
(He'd tossed a letter into that self same fireplace, and she'd watched the edge of it catch before fishing it out against with an iron poker. She likes to think it was charming.)
Strange, how a second examination of her pockets yields a tinderbox after all.
"I read your book, by the way. Or your poet's book, rather."
"Before my time, clearly. Why I've never taken up the pipe." Also, it's an expensive habit for an elven servant. Maybe one day they'll invent cigarettes.
He looks far more interested at the mention of poetry, of course. "All of it?" And then, don't be a dick, Mhavos. "Not that-" Ahem. "I hope you enjoyed it."
"Are you accusing me of being impatient, Archivist Dalat?" Honestly, the audacity of it all. She shoots him a deft look as she uncaps the little kit and sets to lighting the pipe.
"--Though you're right. I may have skimmed here and there. I'd like to see if I can't convince Bastien to read it to me aloud before I return it; I see the appeal, but suspect my ears may be better with these things than my eyes are."
"No, no," he says with a laugh. "If anything, the impatient one is myself. Nettling is my favorite poet, and I am overeager to discuss him with anyone who will tolerate it. I realize not everyone shares this... urge." His voice turns at the last word; it's not the best one for what he wants to describe, but he can't think of a better, and it shows.
He hates that.
But his pleasant spine returns when he looks over at Fitcher. "I would agree. The best poets, in my experience, live in the mouth as well as the hand. I know several by heart, if you'd like to hear them."
This is a totally normal offer made in normal circumstances.
"By all means. Recite away," she invites him, setting the pipe between her teeth. A few pulls encourage the weak ember burning in the bowl to swell, and for the tobacco to catch properly. "I'm a great fan of other people's passions."
And then he clears his throat, and recites. On every stressed iamb, he gently taps a finger, soundless, onto the wood of their table.
"A wreathèd garland of deservèd praise, Of praise deservèd, unto Thee I give, I give to Thee, who knowest all my ways, My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,— Wherein I die, not live ; for life is straight, Straight as a line, and ever tends to Thee, To Thee, who art more far above deceit, Than deceit seems above simplicity. Give me simplicity, that I may live, So live and like, that I may know Thy ways, Know them and practice them: then shall I give For this poor wreath, give Thee a crown of praise."
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a.
He looks up with a curious eye, sees the speaker, and his expression softens. "Alas, no." He looks over to the fireplace. "I could set something alight and bring it do you, but I'm not sure how much good that would do."
no subject
(He'd tossed a letter into that self same fireplace, and she'd watched the edge of it catch before fishing it out against with an iron poker. She likes to think it was charming.)
Strange, how a second examination of her pockets yields a tinderbox after all.
"I read your book, by the way. Or your poet's book, rather."
no subject
He looks far more interested at the mention of poetry, of course. "All of it?" And then, don't be a dick, Mhavos. "Not that-" Ahem. "I hope you enjoyed it."
no subject
"--Though you're right. I may have skimmed here and there. I'd like to see if I can't convince Bastien to read it to me aloud before I return it; I see the appeal, but suspect my ears may be better with these things than my eyes are."
no subject
He hates that.
But his pleasant spine returns when he looks over at Fitcher. "I would agree. The best poets, in my experience, live in the mouth as well as the hand. I know several by heart, if you'd like to hear them."
This is a totally normal offer made in normal circumstances.
no subject
It's charming.
no subject
And then he clears his throat, and recites. On every stressed iamb, he gently taps a finger, soundless, onto the wood of their table.
"A wreathèd garland of deservèd praise,
Of praise deservèd, unto Thee I give,
I give to Thee, who knowest all my ways,
My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,—
Wherein I die, not live ; for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to Thee,
To Thee, who art more far above deceit,
Than deceit seems above simplicity.
Give me simplicity, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know Thy ways,
Know them and practice them: then shall I give
For this poor wreath, give Thee a crown of praise."