A Constable Calls.

Postby Cinnabar » Fri Apr 27, 2007 11:30 am

"The small details are clear enough - work for coin for food, this is like the necessity of placing one foot in front of another. It is what must be done in order to move. But the direction? That is a bigger goal, I think. Viewing the steps of work-coin-food as the direction is like a man who walks and walks through the desert but only looks at his feet. If he does not look up, how can he know what direction he is taking?" Advice, a caution, a rebuke? Hard to say. Treat it as a comment, an observation without judgement if you feel generous.

He drains the last of his cup, and sets it aside for the moment. The conversation has taken an odd turn, it occurs to him. But it is somehow in a good way. Her question has him glancing back to her, though he remains still as she thinks it through and speaks again.

"This is true. Refusal to answer a question can be a perfectly useful answer in itself." A wry smile at that, no doubt thinking to his work with the Constabulary, its interviews and interrogations and questions galore. But to the other point:

"And befallen... is a good word. I would say inflicted, but that presumes unpleasant motives of which I have seen little evidence thus far."
Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Apr 27, 2007 12:01 pm

A distinctly odd turn. Ask Cinnabar about his sword, she'd once bade Starr -- who'd had such success in the matter of Renne and Prime, after all, so that she'd reckoned him most adept in these tricks. See what he does, she'd invited, because she'd done so herself already, and the results had been ... surprising. In the light of Renne's unusual situation, they had been almost alarming.

Several days from now, a large group of persons will storm the caverns which house the Order's gatherings. Cinnabar will be amongst their number, and Ariane as well, and she will witness the man act in a way which reminds her keenly of that alarm. But a great many hours stretch between Then and Now, and in this moment, the woman's concerns are very different. This conversation, for instance: the very fact that they converse at all, and in such directions, so that she is put in mind of Duquesne and Bromn both, and finds the comparison disconcerting. If there is trouble written across her features, that is surely its source, and what follows only heightens the fact -- for he has echoed another man entirely, somehow, and for a long moment her aspect hardens entirely.

For a time, she is as closed to him as if her skull were vacant of thought, of person.

"You are not," she begins eventually, "the first to suggest this thing." Flatly-spoken, perhaps. Carefully measured. A woman reaches for control, achieves it with particular effort. "I have come to see the truth in it: what it means merely to exist, what it means to live. Existence does not satisfy me as it once did; I find it ... insufficient. And I find this realisation uncomfortable.

There. Now you have more than you wished to know."

There is some measure of dignity here, beneath the bruises; there is a great expanse of pride, lurking beneath the sellsword's natural arrogance. It has lifted her scarred chin, has made a thin line of her lips -- but one which gradually relents, which discovers a very slightly self-deprecating tilt.

"So I have thought on this, mn? This .. direction, this choice. I tell you mine, for it is so simple: that there are some very few things that I cherish, that I find most fine, most worth preserving. These things which I love, I discover so often that peril threatens them, and me..."

Her smile is not quite kind.

"I excel at nothing but the banishment of peril.

"It seems so simple, yes? It ... should be so simple. It seldom is."
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Postby Cinnabar » Fri Apr 27, 2007 12:25 pm

The... chill is noted, noted and understood. And the restraint is appreciated most certainly, as he has no wish for so undignified a thing as a brawl with an injured woman. A conciliatory tone to his voice, as of one apologising for speaking unclearly.

"Those who make the suggestion often do so because they have felt the difference between existence and living, and want others to feel it. Like the difference between tepid water and fine wine, between boiled gruel and a sumptuous feast, between thick fog and brilliant sunshine." 'Try this', they say, 'is it not amazing? Is it not delicious?'. It is a gift that they attempt to bestow, because they cannot bear to see those they hold in fondness continue to struggle on merely existing. It is not a criticism. It is an invitation - and not one to look back over your shoulder at time spent shuffling in circles, either; it is an invitation to look to what you can do now that you are intent on living."

He grins, a light of enthusiasm supplanting the uncertain contemplation in his features.

"It is not simple, but still you excel at it. That sounds good to me. And... forgive me, but I think you do follow your heart in these things, else how would you know what is worth cherishing?"
Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Sat Apr 28, 2007 7:30 am

"I understand this. I hold evidence of it before me, yes?" And here follows a sweep of the bandaged hand to encompass chess-boards and excellent wines, looking-glasses and gilt-edged books; oh, even their very lavish surrounds, although that ... Ah, that had been so long ago. But still, this broad gesture: oh, look upon this for a moment, Cinnabar; look upon these wonders to which a brute sword is introduced, the marvels which are shared with her here.

"It ... is such a criticism. It is also such an invitation. These things do not trouble me. It is like... the tales of ghosts, you see? To hear such a thing said, over and again. Mm ... no matter, I think. I am glad that there is more than this simple existence, but I often wish for the simplicity of that. A weakness, yes?"

Yes. But oh, it's a familiar questions which Cinnabar poses now, and perhaps he will realise this; perhaps, much later, it will occur to him that Ariane has frequently asked it of herself.

"It is not my heart which must weigh a thing's value. Do you think that mine has much care for the worth of your sword? Is it with my heart that I measure the balance of its hilt, the keeness of its edge? Must I check the quality of its make with anything but my knowledge of such weapons?

Mm. I think I manage adequately in this way. I think I recognise a ... a fine mind, when I encounter one. I think I recognise a -- "

And here she must pause, a moment; here she must very carefully, very closely fix the man's gaze with her grey own.

"A man who inspires what is less than him, what is poorer: the evidence of that is very clear to the eyes, the mind. A man who sets himself between the helpless and what direly threatens them, mm? A man who perishes a hundred times before that he will let dark things seize what looks to him. It is not difficult to recognise such a thing.

It does not require my heart, that I value it."
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