It is light. It gets me clean. It leaves room in my pack for other things. No risk of spills.
[ He tics off reasons on slender fingers, pausing between them to steal another drink of wine as Emet-Selch tends to the twists and tangles of his hair, then moves on to rinsing. ]
Of course it m-matters. [ A sullen sigh rushes out of him, sloping his shoulders. Viktor thinks not of lines drawn, of boundaries crossed, of where they once were and find themselves now. No, on his mind are toothless conversations, uncleared air, arguments unresolved because one or the other of them decides to make himself unyielding, impossible.
Then Emet-Selch asks for another soap bottle, and he snorts a laugh. ] Like washing my hair so much you want to do it again, aye?
[ All the same, he reaches for it, grasps the neck and then turns. There is ample room in this tub to do so, to lift himself up, barely clearing the water, and do a half spin. After a second-long moment of dithering spent wondering whether it'd be wholly unwelcome for him to jut his legs around Emet-Selch's torso, Viktor deposits himself before Emet-Selch once more, facing him this time. One curl, slipped loose, near a corkscrew for having finally been nourished with something other than bar soap, sits along the bridge of his nose. His legs, he decides to keep neatly tucked beneath him, lending him a bit of extra height. He mislikes it. The air is far too cold, and even the wine warming his face and shoulders is little help. But it will do for now. ]
Aye, and you could get my whole and true story from Lord Edmont's memoirs, or Alphinaud's letters home, or all the little reports Garlemald surely wrote about the terror stalking the woods beyond Baelsar's Wall, I am sure. [ He clutches the green bottle against his bare chest, not willing to give it up quite yet. ] Were I to visit a history book, 'twould take me two b-bells to read ten pages, and aught I'd learn, I am sure, would have been edited and s-sensationalized to pure fiction by your own hand!
[ He emphasizes that last bit with three taps of the bottom of the wine bottle against Emet-Selch's chest, then holds it out in offering, still keeping the green bottle close, like a dog with a toy. A beat of silence follows, and Viktor settles, expression softening as he studies Emet-Selch's features. ]
no subject
[ He tics off reasons on slender fingers, pausing between them to steal another drink of wine as Emet-Selch tends to the twists and tangles of his hair, then moves on to rinsing. ]
Of course it m-matters. [ A sullen sigh rushes out of him, sloping his shoulders. Viktor thinks not of lines drawn, of boundaries crossed, of where they once were and find themselves now. No, on his mind are toothless conversations, uncleared air, arguments unresolved because one or the other of them decides to make himself unyielding, impossible.
Then Emet-Selch asks for another soap bottle, and he snorts a laugh. ] Like washing my hair so much you want to do it again, aye?
[ All the same, he reaches for it, grasps the neck and then turns. There is ample room in this tub to do so, to lift himself up, barely clearing the water, and do a half spin. After a second-long moment of dithering spent wondering whether it'd be wholly unwelcome for him to jut his legs around Emet-Selch's torso, Viktor deposits himself before Emet-Selch once more, facing him this time. One curl, slipped loose, near a corkscrew for having finally been nourished with something other than bar soap, sits along the bridge of his nose. His legs, he decides to keep neatly tucked beneath him, lending him a bit of extra height. He mislikes it. The air is far too cold, and even the wine warming his face and shoulders is little help. But it will do for now. ]
Aye, and you could get my whole and true story from Lord Edmont's memoirs, or Alphinaud's letters home, or all the little reports Garlemald surely wrote about the terror stalking the woods beyond Baelsar's Wall, I am sure. [ He clutches the green bottle against his bare chest, not willing to give it up quite yet. ] Were I to visit a history book, 'twould take me two b-bells to read ten pages, and aught I'd learn, I am sure, would have been edited and s-sensationalized to pure fiction by your own hand!
[ He emphasizes that last bit with three taps of the bottom of the wine bottle against Emet-Selch's chest, then holds it out in offering, still keeping the green bottle close, like a dog with a toy. A beat of silence follows, and Viktor settles, expression softening as he studies Emet-Selch's features. ]
Why d'you think I asked, to begin with?