09-08-2016, 11:44 AM
Many, including the Whites, could have a field day with Jai laid out on their coach. A good number had, in fact, though none of them were Whites. And likely not for sessions a White would sanction. Point was, he was probably screwed up enough to fascinate all of them.
It didn't take the Light's holy, revealing truth to know Jai was half way screwed up. Though really, these days who wasn't? The interesting part: he had no reason to be. Mikel now, his father used to wail on him on a regular basis as a kid. Yet he turned out alright: the sword-wielding Guardsman married to just about the greatest woman alive and raising their own curly-haired hoodlums. Well-liked, honorable, and earning deserved promotions. Jon's life long best mate ended up choosing his sister over him then took off with neither one invited along for the ride. Now, he was just as married as Mikel. And fertile apparently, given the gaggle of youngsters knocking on the grown-ups' knees the night before.
Jai, though? The guy had no excuse. He had the pleasure of loving, honorable parents. Education. Provisions. A name to be proud of and a sword to inherit, or kind of inherit. As a half-grown lad, Jai was the one doing the heart-breaking rather than the other way around. Yet for some reason, here he was, strolling confidently toward the rewards of a wildly entertaining bet against who could arguably be one of the most powerful and beautiful women in the world and enjoying the company of another equally stunning, witty woman. And he counted every step of the way. And the number of people they had passed. Divided into male and females. Subdivided into uniformed and civilian. And not from paranoia, though some might attribute it to the nature of his profession. No, just for the obsessive pleasure of counting. Though the nature of his profession did not help. All the while rearranging what was gathered to calculate patterns of predictability on the off chance it revealed some unlikely conspiracy.
By calling it a gift, Nythadri once more miscalculated him as something else. It won a downplaying smirk. He could measure return on a risk easily enough and Nythadri was unlikely to assign him the wholesome task of patterning statistics any time soon. To run up the battle movements of her enemies so to find the most likely time where one blow could do the greatest amount of damage. Tsorovan was right, it was useful; but not that difficult: finding the balance of maximum return for minimal risk. That was all. Nothing a great accountant couldn't do. Fortunately, out of those currently walking in the Black, it was work nobody else could do in real time. Figure as it happened. Watch, wait, calculate. Watch some more, wait for the right moment, go for it. Get the job done, leave, go to the next one. Try and find a game of cards between.
"No, not all the time."
He didn't look at her when he said it. It wasn't a curse. The answer was reserved, but he wasn't looking for sympathy. There was nothing to sympathize anyway. If there had been, he would not have sought it. He had a knack for numbers. Obsessing over them was probably a natural progression anyway. Akin to the way a master of the blade might imagine every mundane movement as the initiation of a killing blow.
When she answered, he smoothed down the black sleeves, landing on a pair of hands nimble enough to script neatly in ledgers, strong enough to wilt their leather bindings, though Jai would never want to. The study affirmed the reality he wanted to deny. Channelers had little need for a soldier's rough skin, and it wasn't the habit of moving camps, gripping the hilt, or life in a tent that thickened his hide. Had she chosen alternate phrasing, there would have been little in the nod to follow to reveal how deep the word might sting. If at all. However, neither would she have been wrong in her choice description. After all, that Eyeless left its mark on him, but only after he charged it. Ripping through Darkspawn with a sword was not a problem. Sought out, actually. Other sins, however? She was more optimistic than he concerning redemption. Theirs were more likely the agent of thickening which delved deep below the hide and not just of hands.
As soon as he did it, he belatedly wrote the sigh off as a smirk. It was all the better Nythadri assumed the frustration evolved from the change of methodical pace as an accountant to the haste of Dragonsworn anyway. She held the door open for him, but after passing by, he assumed its weight on his fingertips above her head so she might proceed first. And him gain some ground back in repayment for her service. He may not be so rigid as a native born Borderlander, but he could open a door for a woman. Clearly, White Tower second rank or not, she was not his inferior.
"After you, Nythadri."
Playfully, he tacked on her name at the end. Just to hear the sound of it. The accompanying grin was meant to smooth over some of those previous pessimistic hints. But not too much, there was no point severing the only bond between them. That is, inconsolable misanthrope.
They strolled. Jai tucked his hands back to where they were. Out of sight and mind. Far from easy reach to the corded hilt. Evidence of its necessity to an Asha'man though not of its value.
"I could ask the same of you?"
Teasing jaunts aside, he wouldn't make her answer, nor tempt her with the opportunity to join him. Someday, perhaps. When she had the same measure of freedoms he enjoyed. Perhaps for a game of cards. Not that Accepted were banned from card playing. He wasn't gifted with cards either; but very good at keeping count.
"My mother believes for a few more days. Don't know how she got the idea."
Because her son had nothing of his own packed for a journey. Of course, neither had he arrived with more than one bag either. A sidelong glance put Nythadri back in his view. "But given our destination, it seems I've only minutes left."
He shrugged, just a guy along for a ride.
It didn't take the Light's holy, revealing truth to know Jai was half way screwed up. Though really, these days who wasn't? The interesting part: he had no reason to be. Mikel now, his father used to wail on him on a regular basis as a kid. Yet he turned out alright: the sword-wielding Guardsman married to just about the greatest woman alive and raising their own curly-haired hoodlums. Well-liked, honorable, and earning deserved promotions. Jon's life long best mate ended up choosing his sister over him then took off with neither one invited along for the ride. Now, he was just as married as Mikel. And fertile apparently, given the gaggle of youngsters knocking on the grown-ups' knees the night before.
Jai, though? The guy had no excuse. He had the pleasure of loving, honorable parents. Education. Provisions. A name to be proud of and a sword to inherit, or kind of inherit. As a half-grown lad, Jai was the one doing the heart-breaking rather than the other way around. Yet for some reason, here he was, strolling confidently toward the rewards of a wildly entertaining bet against who could arguably be one of the most powerful and beautiful women in the world and enjoying the company of another equally stunning, witty woman. And he counted every step of the way. And the number of people they had passed. Divided into male and females. Subdivided into uniformed and civilian. And not from paranoia, though some might attribute it to the nature of his profession. No, just for the obsessive pleasure of counting. Though the nature of his profession did not help. All the while rearranging what was gathered to calculate patterns of predictability on the off chance it revealed some unlikely conspiracy.
By calling it a gift, Nythadri once more miscalculated him as something else. It won a downplaying smirk. He could measure return on a risk easily enough and Nythadri was unlikely to assign him the wholesome task of patterning statistics any time soon. To run up the battle movements of her enemies so to find the most likely time where one blow could do the greatest amount of damage. Tsorovan was right, it was useful; but not that difficult: finding the balance of maximum return for minimal risk. That was all. Nothing a great accountant couldn't do. Fortunately, out of those currently walking in the Black, it was work nobody else could do in real time. Figure as it happened. Watch, wait, calculate. Watch some more, wait for the right moment, go for it. Get the job done, leave, go to the next one. Try and find a game of cards between.
"No, not all the time."
He didn't look at her when he said it. It wasn't a curse. The answer was reserved, but he wasn't looking for sympathy. There was nothing to sympathize anyway. If there had been, he would not have sought it. He had a knack for numbers. Obsessing over them was probably a natural progression anyway. Akin to the way a master of the blade might imagine every mundane movement as the initiation of a killing blow.
When she answered, he smoothed down the black sleeves, landing on a pair of hands nimble enough to script neatly in ledgers, strong enough to wilt their leather bindings, though Jai would never want to. The study affirmed the reality he wanted to deny. Channelers had little need for a soldier's rough skin, and it wasn't the habit of moving camps, gripping the hilt, or life in a tent that thickened his hide. Had she chosen alternate phrasing, there would have been little in the nod to follow to reveal how deep the word might sting. If at all. However, neither would she have been wrong in her choice description. After all, that Eyeless left its mark on him, but only after he charged it. Ripping through Darkspawn with a sword was not a problem. Sought out, actually. Other sins, however? She was more optimistic than he concerning redemption. Theirs were more likely the agent of thickening which delved deep below the hide and not just of hands.
As soon as he did it, he belatedly wrote the sigh off as a smirk. It was all the better Nythadri assumed the frustration evolved from the change of methodical pace as an accountant to the haste of Dragonsworn anyway. She held the door open for him, but after passing by, he assumed its weight on his fingertips above her head so she might proceed first. And him gain some ground back in repayment for her service. He may not be so rigid as a native born Borderlander, but he could open a door for a woman. Clearly, White Tower second rank or not, she was not his inferior.
"After you, Nythadri."
Playfully, he tacked on her name at the end. Just to hear the sound of it. The accompanying grin was meant to smooth over some of those previous pessimistic hints. But not too much, there was no point severing the only bond between them. That is, inconsolable misanthrope.
They strolled. Jai tucked his hands back to where they were. Out of sight and mind. Far from easy reach to the corded hilt. Evidence of its necessity to an Asha'man though not of its value.
"I could ask the same of you?"
Teasing jaunts aside, he wouldn't make her answer, nor tempt her with the opportunity to join him. Someday, perhaps. When she had the same measure of freedoms he enjoyed. Perhaps for a game of cards. Not that Accepted were banned from card playing. He wasn't gifted with cards either; but very good at keeping count.
"My mother believes for a few more days. Don't know how she got the idea."
Because her son had nothing of his own packed for a journey. Of course, neither had he arrived with more than one bag either. A sidelong glance put Nythadri back in his view. "But given our destination, it seems I've only minutes left."
He shrugged, just a guy along for a ride.
Only darkness shows you the light.