[The phylactery doesn't feel like anything. Almost weightless. Whatever Nikos expected, this isn't it. Was he making it bigger, weightier, because of the way Kostos was acting about it? Or because of what he knows of phylacteries?--societally, socially, religiously, out of hearsay and books alike, thanks to all those years of private education.
Nikos turns away and puts the wrapped package down on the table, next to his jug of wine. With his back to Kostos, he uses his index finger to push the phylactery closer to the stack of books, keeping it away from the edge. It still looks small and rather stupid.]
They make these too important. [--instead of saying anything about what he is or isn't owed.] Everyone. You, the Circles, the Templars. They make these too important. Just because a man has a weapon that could--level a city-- but no one makes a phylactery for a king to keep him in line. He has an army. He could do fucking anything. They don't care.
[He picks up his cup of wine and drains the last of it. Picks up the jug and pours out, again.]
It's red, [he says, to Kostos, without looking at him.] Almost fitting.
[Like blood. Get it? It's his turn to push something on Kostos. And he turns right around and does, with the jug still in his hand, without couching the offer with words. The cup of wine that he was just drinking from, and it was dirty when he started drinking from it, so it's doubly dirty now. He holds it out to his brother all the same.]
[ It isn't the same. But Kostos can't say that it isn't the same, because the reason why—if a king woke in the middle of the night and ordered his army to slaughter his family, they would send him back to bed—is, if not an open wound, at least a favored ankle, liable to twist again under pressure.
He can't say it, but his brow furrows and his head tilts in obvious disagreeableness, all before the dirty cup is offered, at which point the furrow deepens. He's put worse in this mouth, by far. But it feels like a detente, when they haven't discussed terms, and that's—
He takes the cup, but he tips it toward Nikos first, in warning. ]
Do not try to recruit me. [ Without much feeling. He doesn't think Nikos would; he isn't sure how much he would really object to the ideas Nikos and his friends advocate, anymore, if pressed past the point of disagreeing out of habit. ] But do keep comparing me to a king. I like that part.
[With an equal lack of feeling, Nikos advises,] Fuck off.
[Dirty cup is better than jug, which is what Nikos uses as his cup: a swig, directly from the mouth. There isn't much left to it, a knowledge that scratches at Nikos somewhere below even the prickly tense feeling under the scar and skin of his right arm.
He meets Kostos' eye anyways, his gaze even and unimpressed.]
I wouldn't want you anyways. Questionable loyalties and a fucking awful lot of debt.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2018-07-23 09:48 pm (UTC)Nikos turns away and puts the wrapped package down on the table, next to his jug of wine. With his back to Kostos, he uses his index finger to push the phylactery closer to the stack of books, keeping it away from the edge. It still looks small and rather stupid.]
They make these too important. [--instead of saying anything about what he is or isn't owed.] Everyone. You, the Circles, the Templars. They make these too important. Just because a man has a weapon that could--level a city-- but no one makes a phylactery for a king to keep him in line. He has an army. He could do fucking anything. They don't care.
[He picks up his cup of wine and drains the last of it. Picks up the jug and pours out, again.]
It's red, [he says, to Kostos, without looking at him.] Almost fitting.
[Like blood. Get it? It's his turn to push something on Kostos. And he turns right around and does, with the jug still in his hand, without couching the offer with words. The cup of wine that he was just drinking from, and it was dirty when he started drinking from it, so it's doubly dirty now. He holds it out to his brother all the same.]
no subject
Date: 2018-07-29 06:28 am (UTC)He can't say it, but his brow furrows and his head tilts in obvious disagreeableness, all before the dirty cup is offered, at which point the furrow deepens. He's put worse in this mouth, by far. But it feels like a detente, when they haven't discussed terms, and that's—
He takes the cup, but he tips it toward Nikos first, in warning. ]
Do not try to recruit me. [ Without much feeling. He doesn't think Nikos would; he isn't sure how much he would really object to the ideas Nikos and his friends advocate, anymore, if pressed past the point of disagreeing out of habit. ] But do keep comparing me to a king. I like that part.
no subject
Date: 2018-08-07 06:07 pm (UTC)[Dirty cup is better than jug, which is what Nikos uses as his cup: a swig, directly from the mouth. There isn't much left to it, a knowledge that scratches at Nikos somewhere below even the prickly tense feeling under the scar and skin of his right arm.
He meets Kostos' eye anyways, his gaze even and unimpressed.]
I wouldn't want you anyways. Questionable loyalties and a fucking awful lot of debt.