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.
"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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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."