[ As a counterpoint, Kuya appears for all the world as if nothing could bother him. He mirrors Olivine with disarming ease; angles himself toward the priest and tucks his legs up to one side of the armchair cushions. Humans trust more easily when their own movements are parroted. Kuya read that somewhere -- long ago, in one of Huey's tomes, perhaps -- and adopted it into his repertoire whenever it served his purpose. After all, he's nothing if not calculating, and when every movement is still long and loping and reminiscent of his beast beneath, he needs all the help he can get.
There's a small table to the sid of their seats, a laquered tray laid upon it with a few sundries: a chipped stoneware tea set, a long pipe, and an uncapped porcelain jar of potent herb. Kuya attends to the tea first, pouring them each a cup while he tuts quietly. ]
That won't do. I won't harm you. Well-- Not to any extent you'd dislike, in any case. But I would like your input first.
[ The young master didn't get the courtesy of choice in these matters. He had crimes to answer for, and no illusion of safety would help him learn. There are laws in these woods, creatures to be respected, and some far more terrifying than Kuya. In a way, he paid Eiden a mercy. The priest, however?
The dear father's only crime is remaining trapped by his own humanity. Kuya looks at him -- through him -- and sees a man bound tightly by a web chosen for him, but longing for the basest taste of freedom. The things he could do, the boon he could be, if only he learned to temper that destructive restraint! Charismatic and beloved as he is, he could positively ascend, and the mere notion of that chaos is delicious. ]
Talk with me. [ Kuya pushes a cup of tea into Olivine's hands, and sips at his own when he's settled again. ] You say you want to understand what it means to be at the mercy of someone stronger. What does that look like to you? What do you imagine when you think of it?
no subject
[ As a counterpoint, Kuya appears for all the world as if nothing could bother him. He mirrors Olivine with disarming ease; angles himself toward the priest and tucks his legs up to one side of the armchair cushions. Humans trust more easily when their own movements are parroted. Kuya read that somewhere -- long ago, in one of Huey's tomes, perhaps -- and adopted it into his repertoire whenever it served his purpose. After all, he's nothing if not calculating, and when every movement is still long and loping and reminiscent of his beast beneath, he needs all the help he can get.
There's a small table to the sid of their seats, a laquered tray laid upon it with a few sundries: a chipped stoneware tea set, a long pipe, and an uncapped porcelain jar of potent herb. Kuya attends to the tea first, pouring them each a cup while he tuts quietly. ]
That won't do. I won't harm you. Well-- Not to any extent you'd dislike, in any case. But I would like your input first.
[ The young master didn't get the courtesy of choice in these matters. He had crimes to answer for, and no illusion of safety would help him learn. There are laws in these woods, creatures to be respected, and some far more terrifying than Kuya. In a way, he paid Eiden a mercy. The priest, however?
The dear father's only crime is remaining trapped by his own humanity. Kuya looks at him -- through him -- and sees a man bound tightly by a web chosen for him, but longing for the basest taste of freedom. The things he could do, the boon he could be, if only he learned to temper that destructive restraint! Charismatic and beloved as he is, he could positively ascend, and the mere notion of that chaos is delicious. ]
Talk with me. [ Kuya pushes a cup of tea into Olivine's hands, and sips at his own when he's settled again. ] You say you want to understand what it means to be at the mercy of someone stronger. What does that look like to you? What do you imagine when you think of it?