[ Kostos is thoroughly distracted. First by our pact: he has to reach back through twenty years and through the shroud hung around other memories in close proximity, and while doing that he frowns at Nikos like he's learned some strange fourth language. When he does find the memory in the haze, though—the blood, the bruises, the distant crying, the somber drama (they have not changed all that much) of the handshake—he exhales the sort of exhale that might have been a laugh if he were another person in another situation. The pact.
But then, a threat.
It is only fair, of course. Only a return volley of something Kostos started. But Kostos' face still crumples with horror at the thought of a gift parade. He even covers his eyes so he can massage his temples one-handed. He misses Nikos' sleight of hand entirely. Well played. ]
That is, [ he says, and lowers his hand, ] disproportionate retaliation. Escalation.
[Nikos smiles at his hand as the Knight of Sacrifice shows his face among his knightly brothers.]
A pair of wagons at least. You have never been settled anywhere long enough to receive the gifts, the Circle might not allow you the gifts, the road that led to you was dangerous and the gifts might be stolen, you outright refused the gifts-- [A litany of reasons delivered in the tones of complaints. These are all things that have been said of Kostos when their mother was showing Nikos the room kept stacked with back-burnered presents for him.] --or perhaps fear of refusal preempted the effort. I am never sure of which. And thinking about it now, they may require three carts. There are so many.
[He lays his hand facedown on the table so he can lean back in his chair. Of course, he takes his cup of wine with him, and his next comment is addressed there, and not to his brother.]
I am open to negotiation.
Edited (connect my thoughts together, key component of dialogue) Date: 2018-02-12 04:35 am (UTC)
I'm sure. [ Kostos drums his fingers on the table, once apiece. In another time and place, trading threats with another man, there'd be sparks, like a thumb on the scale. But Nikos must know he'd never. Or if he doesn't know, he's one of the few people Kostos wouldn't want to think otherwise.
He draws a card while he's busy sullenly staring Nikos down, and only looks at it belatedly. The Angel of Death. But his hand is a losing one, unless Nikos has had unreasonably bad luck. He keeps it and discards another. He'll sort out how to play it later—try, at least. ]
[Then he takes a big swig of wine, because he wants to, and because it will probably help him to stop looking so very insufferable. Smugness is something in the mouth.
Truthfully his brother is familiar because he looks like Nikos, because Kostos is Kostos. A voice on a page that Nikos could always hear in his head when he was reading his brother's letters. A mirror that frowned back, when Nikos was permitted to go along for a visit. A cheek that Nikos bit once, very hard, and then said it was just because he was pretending to be a wolverine.
And at the same time, Kostos is unfamiliar, because they have not seen one another in years, exchange letters only infrequently, thanks to several factors in both of their lives. And while it is nothing that Nikos is going to dwell over or write about in his journal, it is still a strange thought to consider, as he looks across the table at his brother.]
I'm surprised no one's complained yet. People are always whining at me about the expressions I wear. Perhaps you're more intimidating than I am.
[Nikos raises his cup in a lazy half-toast before he knocks back another sip. Then he leans forward and grabs the edge of the table, levers himself back into position to consider the card that's just been discarded before he picks up his hand and considers what he's holding.]
Anyways. What a blessing for you that our mother is leery at the very idea of Kirkwall. I don't even know that she's send cart or servant. Think of what they would track back on their boots.
[He picks up another card, and discards the Angel of Fortitude with careless ease.]
Edited (oh come on enter key) Date: 2018-02-22 06:21 am (UTC)
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2018-02-12 01:01 am (UTC)But then, a threat.
It is only fair, of course. Only a return volley of something Kostos started. But Kostos' face still crumples with horror at the thought of a gift parade. He even covers his eyes so he can massage his temples one-handed. He misses Nikos' sleight of hand entirely. Well played. ]
That is, [ he says, and lowers his hand, ] disproportionate retaliation. Escalation.
no subject
Date: 2018-02-12 04:32 am (UTC)A pair of wagons at least. You have never been settled anywhere long enough to receive the gifts, the Circle might not allow you the gifts, the road that led to you was dangerous and the gifts might be stolen, you outright refused the gifts-- [A litany of reasons delivered in the tones of complaints. These are all things that have been said of Kostos when their mother was showing Nikos the room kept stacked with back-burnered presents for him.] --or perhaps fear of refusal preempted the effort. I am never sure of which. And thinking about it now, they may require three carts. There are so many.
[He lays his hand facedown on the table so he can lean back in his chair. Of course, he takes his cup of wine with him, and his next comment is addressed there, and not to his brother.]
I am open to negotiation.
no subject
Date: 2018-02-22 03:08 am (UTC)He draws a card while he's busy sullenly staring Nikos down, and only looks at it belatedly. The Angel of Death. But his hand is a losing one, unless Nikos has had unreasonably bad luck. He keeps it and discards another. He'll sort out how to play it later—try, at least. ]
Does smugness look that insufferable on me?
no subject
Date: 2018-02-22 06:11 am (UTC)[Then he takes a big swig of wine, because he wants to, and because it will probably help him to stop looking so very insufferable. Smugness is something in the mouth.
Truthfully his brother is familiar because he looks like Nikos, because Kostos is Kostos. A voice on a page that Nikos could always hear in his head when he was reading his brother's letters. A mirror that frowned back, when Nikos was permitted to go along for a visit. A cheek that Nikos bit once, very hard, and then said it was just because he was pretending to be a wolverine.
And at the same time, Kostos is unfamiliar, because they have not seen one another in years, exchange letters only infrequently, thanks to several factors in both of their lives. And while it is nothing that Nikos is going to dwell over or write about in his journal, it is still a strange thought to consider, as he looks across the table at his brother.]
I'm surprised no one's complained yet. People are always whining at me about the expressions I wear. Perhaps you're more intimidating than I am.
[Nikos raises his cup in a lazy half-toast before he knocks back another sip. Then he leans forward and grabs the edge of the table, levers himself back into position to consider the card that's just been discarded before he picks up his hand and considers what he's holding.]
Anyways. What a blessing for you that our mother is leery at the very idea of Kirkwall. I don't even know that she's send cart or servant. Think of what they would track back on their boots.
[He picks up another card, and discards the Angel of Fortitude with careless ease.]