IP: 2.28.12.27
Posted on September 12, 2013 at 10:49:05 PM by gwythr
| Mordred was more distastefully like his father than probably even he knew. Gwythr observed the theatrical transformation without the slightest change in expression, merely glancing up when the boy spoke. Someone – probably Mallos – had taught him the correct form of address in the ancient language after all, which the deity accepted without comment. Assuming that he would be permitted to use Gwythr’s name was Mordred’s first diplomatic mistake; he would not be allowed a second, as the former made plain by his expression.
What the boy would think to ask and what he had the potential to ask did not necessarily match up. Certainly until he proved himself, Gwythr would not freely give up any information other than the form of his ren. If Mordred was as intelligent as he purported to be then he would already have recognised the opportunity to delve beyond the obvious, but the direction and depth of his digging were limited by his imagination and boldness. Gwythr would not pass information over to someone who was incapable of fearlessly showing a little creative initiative. His respect thus far unearned, he continued penning his letter, ignoring the flattery. He had made sure, that morning, that the Keeper would be keeping Mordred’s escort too busy to eavesdrop or interrupt their conversation – but he saw no reason to reassure the boy of that. Clearly the boy (rather foolishly) believed that they were not being listened in on or else he would not have dropped his mask so easily, but he may still believe that his minutes were golden, and that could make for interesting interaction. After the teenager posed his question, Gwythr finished the sentence he was writing before carefully placing the pen down on the desk and leaning back in his chair. The positioning of the pen – perfectly in line with the parchment – and the way he proceeded to tap the arm of the chair with two fingers on his right hand were thoroughly characteristic of Mallos. Having impersonated the Spaniard for almost a thousand years, Gwythr was clearly having a little difficulty breaking some of the habits he had picked up. “Nothing,” he replied coolly. “You are as inconsequential as an ant to a boot. There is nothing you have to offer me.” He leant forward again, resting the lower part of his arms against the edge of the desk and interlocking his fingers. “That said, I have reason to believe your actions may meet my ends, and I will not stand in the way of anyone who means harm to your father or your brother. Pose your questions,” he picked up the pen again and filled it with ink, before returning to the letter. “I will determine what answers you deserve.” |
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