09-19-2018, 09:46 PM
I would give nearly anything to be able to know what is going on behind his eyes. How is he interpreting my words, how much weight he places on my actions. Each conversation is a chance to better perfect my craft, though with Arthas the performance had long ago become my favorite. It is comforting, the routine and role I know so well.
Keeping Arthas happy is all I've thought about for years.
I'd had that startling realization after a probing conversation with a stranger. What makes you happy? he had asked me. The answer had eluded me ever since, always a half pace ahead of my questing self. There were immediate answers, of course, and while some of them were right, none had been perfect. Delta. Loess. Arthas. Cleric. Wolfbane. None were what I needed.
I try to keep that in mind when I answer.
"There is a limited demand for mercenaries in Beqanna. Most of the kingdoms espouse neutrality, a desire for peace and quiet." Piecing together the bits of gossip, my conversations with Wolfbane and sources in the meadow; this is my forte. It's easy to get what I need when I project an air of comfort, familiarity, friendship. "And if you expect me to stay in this nightmare of a forest, I'm going to need a few creature comforts."
There, a flash of genuine emotion. I do not pause to gauge the dapple stallion's reaction, and instead carry on. There's entitlement in my tone, just enough to place me as someone who had grown up royal. "We need to convince the rest of Beqanna that Sylva is safe again." He has just told me that it isn't - and it won't be, so I trust him to know that I mean that I will be less than truthful in my diplomacy.
"I think I can spin that story. In the meantime though, I think I'll go to Ischia. It was the last place I flew before my wing was broken." Broken by Modicum Mortem, by the stallion that Arthas had given me to.
Despite the subject, I was relaxing as I spoke - never fully, of course - and by the end of it my head is resting across the rise of Arthas' withers.
Keeping Arthas happy is all I've thought about for years.
I'd had that startling realization after a probing conversation with a stranger. What makes you happy? he had asked me. The answer had eluded me ever since, always a half pace ahead of my questing self. There were immediate answers, of course, and while some of them were right, none had been perfect. Delta. Loess. Arthas. Cleric. Wolfbane. None were what I needed.
I try to keep that in mind when I answer.
"There is a limited demand for mercenaries in Beqanna. Most of the kingdoms espouse neutrality, a desire for peace and quiet." Piecing together the bits of gossip, my conversations with Wolfbane and sources in the meadow; this is my forte. It's easy to get what I need when I project an air of comfort, familiarity, friendship. "And if you expect me to stay in this nightmare of a forest, I'm going to need a few creature comforts."
There, a flash of genuine emotion. I do not pause to gauge the dapple stallion's reaction, and instead carry on. There's entitlement in my tone, just enough to place me as someone who had grown up royal. "We need to convince the rest of Beqanna that Sylva is safe again." He has just told me that it isn't - and it won't be, so I trust him to know that I mean that I will be less than truthful in my diplomacy.
"I think I can spin that story. In the meantime though, I think I'll go to Ischia. It was the last place I flew before my wing was broken." Broken by Modicum Mortem, by the stallion that Arthas had given me to.
Despite the subject, I was relaxing as I spoke - never fully, of course - and by the end of it my head is resting across the rise of Arthas' withers.
