☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"when your mother reaches / out to you, when your mother / reaches out, when your mother reaches, when-"
"when your mother reaches / out to you, when your mother / reaches out, when your mother reaches, when-"
I can’t make out what the painters are saying for their accents – and lowered voices -, but I hear Ishak say Oh, that’s just Ruth. It seems to amuse them. I can’t imagine why, but, by the time I’ve made it across the courtyard to them, they’ve quieted.
I glance at them briefly. I probably look apathetic, or else frigid – but I am too tired to put up pretenses with anyone else tonight. At my question, Ishak smiles up at me. (I do not smile back.) As much as I’m capable of. By the way, they won’t bite if you step closer. For all of Ishak’s complaining, I suspect that he has been enjoying himself quite a lot this evening. If nothing else, I’m sure that he likes the rumors.
I’ve never seen the appeal. Perhaps it is a consequence of having spent my life in the – admittedly muted, in my case – limelight, alongside most everyone I know, but I don’t care to know what people think of me, much less my entire family. The rumors about us amuse Ishak, however, and I tend to humor him. (It’s not as though I’ve ever been good at keeping him quiet, anyways.)
I ignore Ishak’s comment on the painters, and I don’t step any closer. “I know,” I say, flatly. (I do not know if Pilate would have hired them if they did bite, but, then, he might have simply thought of it as an elaborate party trick; that said, I’ve seen them before, on more than one occasion. I am not so sure that they have ever noticed me in kind.) That does not mean that I want to volunteer myself as a canvas. I know that artists are fond of having a plain canvas, and I am certainly plain, but I have no desire to have artwork made of me.
(I have always been an ugly paradox, one-part desperate to be seen, one-part wholly unwilling to make the effort to do so. At any rate, I am not Corradh, and I am not Ishak; I lack such flashy sensibilities. Any designs painted onto my coat would, I’m sure, feel arrogant and overdrawn on me.)
He tosses a grape into his mouth, languid as a cat; it is a violet arc to his lips. I think that there is something to be said about the sight of grapes on platters, especially at a party like this one, but I couldn’t tell you what it is. (Or maybe – it would just be hypocritical, coming from my mouth.) That is a second reason why I’m not willing to draw any further, regardless. There is spilled alcohol and paint and smashed grape splattered all across the courtyard floor, where the painters are working, and it wouldn’t do for me to look any more unkempt than I do already.
(Besides. I already spend most of my time with my hooves stained with one thing or another – antiseptic, or, more often, bits of gore and blood.)
It occurs to me that I don’t really know what to say to him.
He’s already refused to help me, and I don’t want to plead with him. (My pride would not allow it, and I am trying my best not to think about it, regardless.) We always have something to talk about, but we rarely argue. I think that we might have done it more often, when we first met, when neither of us really trusted each other at all, but we don’t argue very often now.
And we aren’t really arguing – but that is beside the point.
Hypothetically, Ishak says, how attached are you to do no harm?
I decide that Ishak is drunk. Tipsy, at least. (Definitely has – something in his system, and it’s certainly not one of my brother’s drinks. Ishak is something of a snob over the strangest things.) Otherwise, he wouldn’t be talking about something like this, considering how many nobles at this party are sure to know about his prior occupation, and considering that he is normally evasive, at best, about his work as an assassin.
(Especially to me.)
I might be willing to disregard a few ethical scruples for Ishak’s sake, if he asked while he was in my good graces – but, at the moment, he isn’t, so, instead of answering, I tilt my head, and I ask, “Who did you see this time?”
I somehow doubt that I will be given a straight answer.
@Ishak || she's............................Salty. || here
I glance at them briefly. I probably look apathetic, or else frigid – but I am too tired to put up pretenses with anyone else tonight. At my question, Ishak smiles up at me. (I do not smile back.) As much as I’m capable of. By the way, they won’t bite if you step closer. For all of Ishak’s complaining, I suspect that he has been enjoying himself quite a lot this evening. If nothing else, I’m sure that he likes the rumors.
I’ve never seen the appeal. Perhaps it is a consequence of having spent my life in the – admittedly muted, in my case – limelight, alongside most everyone I know, but I don’t care to know what people think of me, much less my entire family. The rumors about us amuse Ishak, however, and I tend to humor him. (It’s not as though I’ve ever been good at keeping him quiet, anyways.)
I ignore Ishak’s comment on the painters, and I don’t step any closer. “I know,” I say, flatly. (I do not know if Pilate would have hired them if they did bite, but, then, he might have simply thought of it as an elaborate party trick; that said, I’ve seen them before, on more than one occasion. I am not so sure that they have ever noticed me in kind.) That does not mean that I want to volunteer myself as a canvas. I know that artists are fond of having a plain canvas, and I am certainly plain, but I have no desire to have artwork made of me.
(I have always been an ugly paradox, one-part desperate to be seen, one-part wholly unwilling to make the effort to do so. At any rate, I am not Corradh, and I am not Ishak; I lack such flashy sensibilities. Any designs painted onto my coat would, I’m sure, feel arrogant and overdrawn on me.)
He tosses a grape into his mouth, languid as a cat; it is a violet arc to his lips. I think that there is something to be said about the sight of grapes on platters, especially at a party like this one, but I couldn’t tell you what it is. (Or maybe – it would just be hypocritical, coming from my mouth.) That is a second reason why I’m not willing to draw any further, regardless. There is spilled alcohol and paint and smashed grape splattered all across the courtyard floor, where the painters are working, and it wouldn’t do for me to look any more unkempt than I do already.
(Besides. I already spend most of my time with my hooves stained with one thing or another – antiseptic, or, more often, bits of gore and blood.)
It occurs to me that I don’t really know what to say to him.
He’s already refused to help me, and I don’t want to plead with him. (My pride would not allow it, and I am trying my best not to think about it, regardless.) We always have something to talk about, but we rarely argue. I think that we might have done it more often, when we first met, when neither of us really trusted each other at all, but we don’t argue very often now.
And we aren’t really arguing – but that is beside the point.
Hypothetically, Ishak says, how attached are you to do no harm?
I decide that Ishak is drunk. Tipsy, at least. (Definitely has – something in his system, and it’s certainly not one of my brother’s drinks. Ishak is something of a snob over the strangest things.) Otherwise, he wouldn’t be talking about something like this, considering how many nobles at this party are sure to know about his prior occupation, and considering that he is normally evasive, at best, about his work as an assassin.
(Especially to me.)
I might be willing to disregard a few ethical scruples for Ishak’s sake, if he asked while he was in my good graces – but, at the moment, he isn’t, so, instead of answering, I tilt my head, and I ask, “Who did you see this time?”
I somehow doubt that I will be given a straight answer.
@
HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTHlaughs at my red teeth❂please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence
