[--A letter which comes to Caspar, smelling of seawater, via an exceptionally short dwarf. The letter itself has been closed with wax and, once opened, is written in code. But code Caspar knows. Old, simple, easy for him to decipher. This is Nikos' version of nostalgia, using old codes.]
[ Of course he's spoken to his brother, but has he spoken to him?? Might as well ask the real questions if this conversation is going to take a week. ]
[This hardly counts as a letter because it is very brief and has no signature or address on it. Or, well, it does. Because it's Caspar's last letter, with a note from Nikos at the bottom.]
[Nikos, sitting on the low half wall some distance away, offers this deeply helpful critique. He's fine. It's a little too sunny for his taste, out here in the courtyard, but Caspar had suggested practicing at this out of doors, that it might be good for a change of pace.
So Nikos had cooperated with that suggestion. Grumbled, acted as if he wouldn't show up, purely on principal, but cooperated.
He has known Caspar for three years now. He could give an exact account of the date, but it wouldn't be the grand romantic gesture that it might seem, it would instead be Nikos, good with dates and figures and numbers. Nikos, who does (despite how he professes to be suspect of romance) remember the first time that he saw Caspar Perakis. He went home and wrote a letter to Marisol about it.
But now they have known each other three years. Training at knives for the better part of a year, but still, Caspar can look clumsy when holding the blade. And clumsy looks strange on Caspar. It doesn't fit his frame, or any part of him. Nikos could, almost, feel superior. But he doesn't, and isn't. Instead he takes another sip of wine from the cup he had brought out here--because it is always better to be drunk--and gestures with it.]
[ It isn't, and he isn't really arguing; the comment's light and amused, and he says it at the exact same time he's checking his posture and correcting it, elbow included. Caspar tosses the dagger carefully, letting it spin once before catching the handle, all show and very little practical use. Less show for the fact that he's doing it to see if he can and paying very little attention to Nikos in the process, however.
He prefers swords. But swords aren't as easy to hide in your boots, and they're much harder to throw, and Nikos is good with daggers; so dagger lessons it is. He cants his head, giving Nikos a sidelong look. ]
I'm not sure I trust your judgment, anyway. Are you sure you can see anything properly from that far off?
[ He isn't that far off. It's just farther than Caspar would like, thanks. ]
tags this back even though we're in a game together now ooh lah lah
[Caught somewhere between wanting to stare fixedly at Caspar doing that stupid showy knife throw and wanting to roll his eyes out of his head at Caspar doing that stupid showy knife throw, Nikos instead opts to (surprise, surprise) take a sip of wine.
There. Better. Now he can properly answer Caspar, which is to say, fix him with a dry stare.]
I'm sure.
[Flat refusal, which he punctuates with another, longer sip of wine.]
If you don't trust my judgement, why did you ask me to be here at all.
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ye olde text aka a letter
C --
Lɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ʜᴇʀᴇ. Yᴏᴜʀ ʟᴀsᴛ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪɴᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ Kɪʀᴋᴡᴀʟʟ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ. Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. I ᴄᴀɴ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴜᴘ. Vᴇʀʏ, ᴠᴇʀʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ. As ᴏʀɢᴀɴɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ sᴛʀɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛ ɢᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ Iɴǫᴜɪsɪᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴀs ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ.
Pᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴡᴀʀꜰ ᴄᴀʀʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ. Hᴇ ɪs sᴜʀᴘʀɪsɪɴɢʟʏ ᴛʀᴜsᴛᴡᴏʀᴛʜʏ. Nᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʜᴇ ɪs ᴀ ᴅᴡᴀʀꜰ ʙᴜᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʜᴇ ɪs ꜰʀᴏᴍ Kɪʀᴋᴡᴀʟʟ.
-- N
ye olde left on read
Dɪꜰꜰɪᴄᴜʟᴛ ᴛᴏ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴜꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴏʀᴇᴅᴏᴍ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ. Tʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ. Nᴏᴡ I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ I'ᴍ ᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴜʀᴘʀɪsɪɴɢʟʏ ᴛʀᴜsᴛᴡᴏʀᴛʜʏ Kɪʀᴋᴡᴀʟʟᴇʀ.
Tʜɪs ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʜᴀs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴘᴀɪᴅ ꜰᴏʀ, ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ.
C.
[ Which is of course code for: a) nice try and b) see you in Kirkwall. ]
ye olde irritated face emoji
C--
Nᴏ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ɪꜰ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ sᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴜᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴄᴏɴsɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ. Oɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏsᴛ ꜰʀᴜsᴛʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛs. I ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴍɪssᴇᴅ ɪᴛ.
Wʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏs ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ sᴇᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴘᴏɪɴᴛʟᴇss ᴇɴᴅᴇᴀᴠᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀsᴛ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛᴇᴅ sᴛᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪs ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ. Oʀ ᴇᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ɪʟʟ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ. I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘʀᴇꜰᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ.
Tʜɪs ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴀɪᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ᴡᴀs ʟᴇꜰᴛ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴜᴘɪᴅ ᴀss.
Oꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ᴀs, ᴛʀᴜʟʏ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ. Sᴏ Yᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ..
-- N
no subject
Tʜᴇʏ'ʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ. Lᴜᴄᴋɪʟʏ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ I'ᴅ ʟᴇꜰᴛ, sᴏ I'ʟʟ ʀᴜɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʀʀᴀɴᴅs. Aʟᴡᴀʏs ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ʀᴏᴄᴋs, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋs ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀɪʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ I'ʟʟ ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴᴄᴇ. Hᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sɪᴄᴋ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟɪɴɢ.
Wɪʟʟ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ꜰᴜɴᴅs ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀʏ ᴏꜰꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴀʙ.
Hᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ?
C.
P.S. Oᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴄᴏɴsɪᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪʟʏ ʙɪᴀsᴇᴅ. Oɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇsᴛ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛs.
[ Of course he's spoken to his brother, but has he spoken to him?? Might as well ask the real questions if this conversation is going to take a week. ]
no subject
Yᴇs. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ sᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. Mᴀɴʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇs, sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɴᴛ. Oᴜʀ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ ᴡᴀs ᴠᴇʀʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ, ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴏᴏᴛʜᴇs ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ.
Wʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ Kᴏsᴛᴏs?
[Because there will be something, if Caspar is asking; they don't just idly chat about families, especially not by letter.]
Hᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ʙᴇ ɪɴᴅɪsᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇ. As ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇ.
-- N
letter sending makes for expensive shitposting
N.
I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴇᴇ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɪs ᴛᴀʟʟᴇʀ. Eᴀsɪᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪsʜ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴇʀᴍs.
C.
worth it imo
Mᴇ.
[So that settles that.]
no subject
i already hate your icons
whose icons tho
also romantic dates learning how to use daggers
[Nikos, sitting on the low half wall some distance away, offers this deeply helpful critique. He's fine. It's a little too sunny for his taste, out here in the courtyard, but Caspar had suggested practicing at this out of doors, that it might be good for a change of pace.
So Nikos had cooperated with that suggestion. Grumbled, acted as if he wouldn't show up, purely on principal, but cooperated.
He has known Caspar for three years now. He could give an exact account of the date, but it wouldn't be the grand romantic gesture that it might seem, it would instead be Nikos, good with dates and figures and numbers. Nikos, who does (despite how he professes to be suspect of romance) remember the first time that he saw Caspar Perakis. He went home and wrote a letter to Marisol about it.
But now they have known each other three years. Training at knives for the better part of a year, but still, Caspar can look clumsy when holding the blade. And clumsy looks strange on Caspar. It doesn't fit his frame, or any part of him. Nikos could, almost, feel superior. But he doesn't, and isn't. Instead he takes another sip of wine from the cup he had brought out here--because it is always better to be drunk--and gestures with it.]
Your elbow especially. You always drop it.
['Always'. But he does.]
no subject
[ It isn't, and he isn't really arguing; the comment's light and amused, and he says it at the exact same time he's checking his posture and correcting it, elbow included. Caspar tosses the dagger carefully, letting it spin once before catching the handle, all show and very little practical use. Less show for the fact that he's doing it to see if he can and paying very little attention to Nikos in the process, however.
He prefers swords. But swords aren't as easy to hide in your boots, and they're much harder to throw, and Nikos is good with daggers; so dagger lessons it is. He cants his head, giving Nikos a sidelong look. ]
I'm not sure I trust your judgment, anyway. Are you sure you can see anything properly from that far off?
[ He isn't that far off. It's just farther than Caspar would like, thanks. ]
tags this back even though we're in a game together now ooh lah lah
There. Better. Now he can properly answer Caspar, which is to say, fix him with a dry stare.]
I'm sure.
[Flat refusal, which he punctuates with another, longer sip of wine.]
If you don't trust my judgement, why did you ask me to be here at all.