Too-soft, now, is it? [ He sounds amused, doubtful, craning his neck to look up and meet his eye. Impossibly tall, he is, and nearly something ethereal, haloed in sunlight the way he is. Viktor's smile, soft and silly, speaks volumes, but he turns to his satchel to fetch the seeds he's brought, gently . ]

Ah, I see. Eager to start your own private vineyard here on the plateaus.

[ He needn't aid to stand, but he takes Emet-Selch's offered hand, anyway, and hefts himself up, teetering into Emet-Selch's space, and letting his fingers knit through the gaps in Emet-Selch's own once he's up, just a moment. Enough for a squeeze, before he parts and ambles over to a spot where weeded ground had not yet given way to wild gardens. This, he assumes, must've been a space where something had once been purposefully cultivated. Roses, he guesses. This place was likely once filled with roses.

Now, it will be grape vines.

He crouches down at a patch with sparse grass and looks up at Emet-Selch once more. ]

And which comes first, the sprouting or the soil?