[ Is he biased or the best judge? Has he not watched, witnessed, felt, across years, across lifetimes, this slow swing from despair and duty to hope? A marvel, a miracle, to see the man who had been Solus zos Galvus become this, not merely a force for good, but a man who allows himself the indulgence of play. Viktor does not argue Emet-Selch's assertion, only answers with a smile, and thinks to himself that the sudden set of his shoulders calls to mind that bird of his, feathers ruffled.
Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.
no subject
Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.