☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"Origin splatter. Dark matter. / I interrogate myself to no end: / What do you remember? What / is good about gold & gods?"
"Origin splatter. Dark matter. / I interrogate myself to no end: / What do you remember? What / is good about gold & gods?"
I have been searching for the bangle for hours.
It isn’t quite a “bauble” to me. Still, I can’t bring myself to admit to caring more about it than any other piece of jewelry I own, even though I’m sure that - in spite of its typical place at the very back of my jewelry box - I do. That would be tantamount to admitting that I care something about her, and I know that I don’t, and I know that I should.
It’s not as though it matters, anyways. When she gave it to me, there was no meaning behind it; I don’t even know why I’ve kept it for so long. I tell myself that I have only continued searching for it because the incident itself offends my pride. That is probably not the truth, but else why should it matter any more to me than any other pretty, bejeweled object in my possession?
It is useless, probably, to go to Ishak over it; he has already said that he won’t help. This is precisely why I’m not going to Ishak over it. But I have tired of searching, for the time (it is beginning to feel futile), and, if I linger in place for too long, I run the risk of having to interact with other partygoers, nobles from Solterra and the other courts - of being a proper representative of the Ieshan house. I have no desire to do such a thing.
Ishak is in the courtyard. The artists that Pilate hired - or dragged directly out of the desert - have flocked around him eagerly, which I find distinctly unsurprising. His coat is usually painted; he would find his way over to them.
He is also, I suspect, one of the few people in attendance that can understand the painters through their thick, Solterran accents.
(I can’t say that I know what his accent would be like, if he weren’t mimicking or modifying it in some way or another; I have always imagined that it is rather thick, like these desert horses, but it is hard to say. That is another thing that I don’t know about Ishak that annoys me. I cannot even say that I know exactly what his voice should sound like.)
I watch the painters as they draw designs onto the dark canvas of his coat, careful to avoid the tattoos; he doesn’t want to hide them tonight, I guess. (I might have expected that he would - I don’t have the faintest idea of how many of the nobles at the party are his former employers. I try not to think about it.) Ishak is chatting with them cheerfully as I watch them from the opposite side of the courtyard, a pleasant (and, to me, businesslike) smile pulled across his lips. When I squint, I can barely make out some of them, though I can’t say that I’m sure what they are. They might simply be abstract patterns, though I’d have to stray closer to look.
When I do, finally (and only somewhat bitterly) approach him, they lift their eyes to me and murmur amongst themselves, but they don’t say anything loudly enough for me to hear it. It’s probably for the best. My hair has fallen almost entirely from the braids that he pulled it into earlier, and the pink flowers have nearly disappeared in a crush of dropped petals over the course of the evening. I don’t come close enough to invite them to paint on me, too - not that they would if I did -, but, from the distance between us, I can make out the designs that they’ve drawn into his coat. Elaborate. Distinctly folkloric, in most cases. (I think that I recognize some of the stories.) Some metallic, to nearly match some of the tattoos; some matte and blood-red, common enough for him in winter. If I weren’t so accustomed to the sight, I might call them striking - but I am.
I look down at him where he lies, the dark, disheveled strands of my forelock in my eyes or else sweat-stuck to my skin; Pilate would be horrified, if he could see, but I have been hunting for the bangle and helping every one of his ailing guests for the entire evening, and I can hardly bring myself to care.
“Enjoying yourself?”
My tone is patently neutral.
(I’m not.)
@Ishak || it legitimately took an hour to find a title + quote for this post || here
It isn’t quite a “bauble” to me. Still, I can’t bring myself to admit to caring more about it than any other piece of jewelry I own, even though I’m sure that - in spite of its typical place at the very back of my jewelry box - I do. That would be tantamount to admitting that I care something about her, and I know that I don’t, and I know that I should.
It’s not as though it matters, anyways. When she gave it to me, there was no meaning behind it; I don’t even know why I’ve kept it for so long. I tell myself that I have only continued searching for it because the incident itself offends my pride. That is probably not the truth, but else why should it matter any more to me than any other pretty, bejeweled object in my possession?
It is useless, probably, to go to Ishak over it; he has already said that he won’t help. This is precisely why I’m not going to Ishak over it. But I have tired of searching, for the time (it is beginning to feel futile), and, if I linger in place for too long, I run the risk of having to interact with other partygoers, nobles from Solterra and the other courts - of being a proper representative of the Ieshan house. I have no desire to do such a thing.
Ishak is in the courtyard. The artists that Pilate hired - or dragged directly out of the desert - have flocked around him eagerly, which I find distinctly unsurprising. His coat is usually painted; he would find his way over to them.
He is also, I suspect, one of the few people in attendance that can understand the painters through their thick, Solterran accents.
(I can’t say that I know what his accent would be like, if he weren’t mimicking or modifying it in some way or another; I have always imagined that it is rather thick, like these desert horses, but it is hard to say. That is another thing that I don’t know about Ishak that annoys me. I cannot even say that I know exactly what his voice should sound like.)
I watch the painters as they draw designs onto the dark canvas of his coat, careful to avoid the tattoos; he doesn’t want to hide them tonight, I guess. (I might have expected that he would - I don’t have the faintest idea of how many of the nobles at the party are his former employers. I try not to think about it.) Ishak is chatting with them cheerfully as I watch them from the opposite side of the courtyard, a pleasant (and, to me, businesslike) smile pulled across his lips. When I squint, I can barely make out some of them, though I can’t say that I’m sure what they are. They might simply be abstract patterns, though I’d have to stray closer to look.
When I do, finally (and only somewhat bitterly) approach him, they lift their eyes to me and murmur amongst themselves, but they don’t say anything loudly enough for me to hear it. It’s probably for the best. My hair has fallen almost entirely from the braids that he pulled it into earlier, and the pink flowers have nearly disappeared in a crush of dropped petals over the course of the evening. I don’t come close enough to invite them to paint on me, too - not that they would if I did -, but, from the distance between us, I can make out the designs that they’ve drawn into his coat. Elaborate. Distinctly folkloric, in most cases. (I think that I recognize some of the stories.) Some metallic, to nearly match some of the tattoos; some matte and blood-red, common enough for him in winter. If I weren’t so accustomed to the sight, I might call them striking - but I am.
I look down at him where he lies, the dark, disheveled strands of my forelock in my eyes or else sweat-stuck to my skin; Pilate would be horrified, if he could see, but I have been hunting for the bangle and helping every one of his ailing guests for the entire evening, and I can hardly bring myself to care.
“Enjoying yourself?”
My tone is patently neutral.
(I’m not.)
@
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
