Not every House stood on a solid foundation, this much the young Gawyne knew, and the history between Krome and his homeland was unfortunately a poor one. One House thought more with their heads while the other reasoned too often with their hands. Specifically, Gawyne viewed Krome as instinctual, thoughtless, and combative, while the northern House was, in opposite, considered disconnected, haughty, and cold. Caius grew up listening to this rhetoric, and while it seemed to be the political game to play with making allies and enemies, he'd always wondered if relying too much on predetermined relationships wasn't detrimental to the progression of Rynmere politics or not.
Clearly, it was.
Just because Xander was now an Andaris by name didn't make him less of a Krome, and while he made it clear he had no issues with violence—such a Krome thing to say, honestly—the other man also seemed thoughtful and considerate of the consequences, of the collateral damage. Despite this, he was still willing to pay the price with the blood of others,
"My Baron father would have me ask you this, I'm certain: then whom do you consider the good men? The ones worth losing? Because it helps to know the sacrifice before you bring it to the table. That's what's going to make you better—or worse—than Burhan. No one but a Gawyne like myself will bother to remember your Fates-be-damned cause in the end."
The printer's diri raised his ink-stained hands at Xander's more intrusive question, laughing at him, "By the Seven—I'm only gifted with one vision as a great grandchild of Ziell: my death. And only my natural one at that. Not how. Not why. Just when. Maybe it's not much of a gift, really, but that's all a matter of perspective. I can't read the entrails of pigeons or chart out the alignment of the stars for anyone else. Not yet, anyway."
Caius' grin was so broad as to border on the wicked, laughter still lingering in the warm tone of his voice. He shook his head at the offer of more coffee, "No, thank you, I think I should at least attempt to sleep to-trial. Later. Maybe."
He shifted in his chair and re-settled, shrugging. His left hand strayed to scratch absently at his wrist, beneath his fingertips the pale, inked numbers of his birthday, his reminder that his beginning had an end,
"I try not to sarding fight with much of anything, despite my present appearances, but yes, I've got some skill with a blade. Lessons in combat are part of our upbringing in the cold, isolated north. A saber's sort of a popular weapon in Gawyne: single-edged and curved, one-handed and quick. I don't have the sarding patience for a slow, two-handed thing like a longsword or even a bastard sword. And yourself? I've heard you've got quite the reputation as a warrior, but you are a Krome by birth after all."
Caius was not by any measure of the word a warrior. He could hold his own in a fight, sometimes best someone not as unpredictable as himself, and had the interest enough to practice and continue to improve. His home of Umbridge was a harsh and feral place, but that didn't make it any more personally dangerous than the political landscape he half-heartedly occupied, which was full of just as many bloodthirsty fiends as some backwater road was full of bandits. The young Gawyne grinned,
"Although, you've got to look out for yourself now, with a family to look out for and all."
Clearly, it was.
Just because Xander was now an Andaris by name didn't make him less of a Krome, and while he made it clear he had no issues with violence—such a Krome thing to say, honestly—the other man also seemed thoughtful and considerate of the consequences, of the collateral damage. Despite this, he was still willing to pay the price with the blood of others,
"My Baron father would have me ask you this, I'm certain: then whom do you consider the good men? The ones worth losing? Because it helps to know the sacrifice before you bring it to the table. That's what's going to make you better—or worse—than Burhan. No one but a Gawyne like myself will bother to remember your Fates-be-damned cause in the end."
The printer's diri raised his ink-stained hands at Xander's more intrusive question, laughing at him, "By the Seven—I'm only gifted with one vision as a great grandchild of Ziell: my death. And only my natural one at that. Not how. Not why. Just when. Maybe it's not much of a gift, really, but that's all a matter of perspective. I can't read the entrails of pigeons or chart out the alignment of the stars for anyone else. Not yet, anyway."
Caius' grin was so broad as to border on the wicked, laughter still lingering in the warm tone of his voice. He shook his head at the offer of more coffee, "No, thank you, I think I should at least attempt to sleep to-trial. Later. Maybe."
He shifted in his chair and re-settled, shrugging. His left hand strayed to scratch absently at his wrist, beneath his fingertips the pale, inked numbers of his birthday, his reminder that his beginning had an end,
"I try not to sarding fight with much of anything, despite my present appearances, but yes, I've got some skill with a blade. Lessons in combat are part of our upbringing in the cold, isolated north. A saber's sort of a popular weapon in Gawyne: single-edged and curved, one-handed and quick. I don't have the sarding patience for a slow, two-handed thing like a longsword or even a bastard sword. And yourself? I've heard you've got quite the reputation as a warrior, but you are a Krome by birth after all."
Caius was not by any measure of the word a warrior. He could hold his own in a fight, sometimes best someone not as unpredictable as himself, and had the interest enough to practice and continue to improve. His home of Umbridge was a harsh and feral place, but that didn't make it any more personally dangerous than the political landscape he half-heartedly occupied, which was full of just as many bloodthirsty fiends as some backwater road was full of bandits. The young Gawyne grinned,
"Although, you've got to look out for yourself now, with a family to look out for and all."
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