Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others,
or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope
or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope
T
hat’s new. If Pravda were a man prone to expressions, he might arch a brow or smother a sneer. Instead he merely regards Andras with a clear lack of humor, impassive as stone. “A man of duty, I see.” Pravda’s voice, however, curls just a little wryly.But the tension drains from Delumine’s warden and Pravda turns to begin walking down a cobblestone path. The wide street gives way to thick trees on either side. Pravda does not speak; he remains pensive, examining the Warden only in sly, sidelong glances so brief they might not exist at all.
“Tell me of Delumine, Warden?” The request is phrased politely, in a tone of voice that suggests Pravda truly cares for the other man’s opinion. Perhaps he does. Pravda possesses an impassivity—an apathy—that makes him difficult to read. “What do you love of our court?”
Pravda, during his life in Novus, has never been particularly outspoken. He has primarily watched from afar the goings on of his Court. The loyalty he feels does not well fiercely in his breast; contrarily, he remains attached to Delumine only in essence, in his quest for knowledge, in that he was born there. His silence has behooved him, however, in observing. He has watched Delumine for the past handful of years and he cannot help but begin to wonder.
The streets do not suit the Warden, Pravda notices, who shed his tension as one takes off a jacket in the cold. Unwillingly. Pravda does not smile. He does nothing but walk, admiring the vibrant life and quiet disposition of the streets.
This encounter, as with any other in Pravda’s life, has been carefully anticipated from afar. He would like to understand the Warden; in his mind’s eye, he sees Andras as the closet a man may come to being a keeper of justice in Novus. A job requiring criticism and judgement.
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