milliways_bar | (no subject)

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One of Nynaeve's herb beds is dying; a complication, perhaps, of trying to grow Valdemaran plants in London Below soil. Nynaeve reacts to difficulties with any patient and any plant rather similarly: with braid-yanking, scowling, and deep irritation with the world at large.

Which means that Lan, despite being immune to most of this irritation, has elected to take the diplomatic course and leave her to stomp around the greenhouse in peace for a while. Instead, he went to practice swordwork by the lake, for his own benefit and that of either of his students who might come by, and has now settled down in the main bar with a cup of wine punch.

And, as ever, an impassive scrutiny of the room at large.

He's wearing his Warder's cloak today, and the magically shifting camouflage makes parts of his back and shoulders appear to blend briefly into the chair and wall behind him.

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Lan glances at her, and inclines his head slightly in greeting.

It's permission.

"Light illumine you." His voice is deep and impassive; grave, even in pleasantries.

Silently she presses a fist into her open palm and bows respectfully at the waist. It is deep enough that she lets her eyes move to the ground in a gesture of respect and trust that he won't try to hit her while she's not looking.

She knows he won't, he's not that sort of man.

He would if he had a good reason to, but only then. He has none, and so he only returns the bow as well as the table will let him, and lets his own eyes drop for a moment.

There's no reason not to, and it's only courtesy to return the trust.

Cass waits for him to look back up before looking over the cloak with a pointed frown. It doesn't look like photo-reactive gear back home. It's far too loose and flowing.

Lan follows her glance, and meets her eyes again, waiting for her to ask aloud.

Which she doesn't.

Huh.

Even Lan isn't that silent; perhaps she's mute?

"It is a Warder's cloak," he says finally, in answer to what he's pretty sure the question is.

She nods. Not because she's familiar with Warder cloaks, but because he is. She can see the implications. Some of them anyway. When that's combined with the way he stands, with a hole in his stance where...

Yes, where someone else should fit.

Cass' eyes move away from him as if trying to find someone else. Someone he should be next to.

She sees very well indeed; Lan, who has spent a good deal of his life observing people, wouldn't have picked up on that fact so fast. He does notice her peering, but his assumption is that she knows what a Warder is. That's rare here, disconcertingly so, but perhaps she knows Kim or Behrooz, or one of the people from his world.

He inclines his head slightly.

"I am alone for the time being."

For the evening, most likely, unless Moiraine comes downstairs, but there's no particular reason to give unnecessary details.

Cass nods in response and then resumes her examination. She frowns just a bit, thinking. One hand extends slowly to tap the hilt of his sword gently with a nod and then withdraws to clench into an empty fist as she tilts her head questioningly.

Lan watches her hand move, eyes narrowed the slightest fraction, but he doesn't stop her. The touch is more intrusive than polite, but it's not threatening. And she seems to be mute; there are communication allowances to make for that.

"My sword?"

It's very much like a katana, plain and well-kept and much-used. The scabbard is of undecorated dark leather, like the hilt wrappings, and it hangs at his hip as if it were a part of his body.

She shakes her head in frustration. With herself rather than him. It's rough being able to "hear" everything anyone says and being unable to say much at all.

Cass decides to try again. She nods pointedly at his sword and then reaches down to her own hip where she might wear one herself. Finding no sword there she feigns an expression of surprise and then steps back, slowly, into an unarmed fighting stance. She holds it for a moment before relaxing and then tilting her head curiously again.

...Ah.

"Yes."

"The sword is my weapon, but I learned to fight first without it." In the Borderlands, a boy becomes a man when he receives his first sword; it's not the only rite of manhood among Lan's people, but it was his first. He was ten, and had been learning for years to kill with hands and feet, and knife and horsebow.

She nods once, pleased that he could understand what she meant. Cassandra smiles.

It takes a moment to find the word she's looking for. "Good." Her voice is completely without inflection, which would normally indicate a statement, but somehow she manages to shift her body in a way to convey that it's really a question.

So she's not mute. Trouble with words? Religious or cultural taboos of some sort?

It doesn't matter for the moment, but he'll keep observing and putting pieces together; you never know when something will prove vital.

She's asking a question, but he's not sure -- oh.

He tips his head fractionally in an abbreviated shrug. "I am alive." For now, at any rate, his tone and body language imply. Lan may not be glad to be alive still, but he has little arrogance about his own prowess.

(He's good.)

Cass nods in approval.

Another moment is spent trying to figure out how to convey her next question. She holds her hands up with the backs facing one another and curls them so that they look sort of like people, with fingers as arms and legs. Then she mimes the two fighting: kicking and punching and blocking one another. After giving Lan time to see what she's doing she raises her hand to point at him and then at herself.

That one's clear enough.

Lan studies her.

On the one hand, he's only just met her. He has no reason to trust her. And she's good, very good; he can see that just by looking at the fluidly balanced way she moves.

On the other hand: she's good. And if she -- or (Semirhage) anyone -- wanted to trap him, there are easier ways. Including just catching him an hour or two ago when he was alone by the lake.

"You and me?"

It's more of a leading question than any real confusion.

She nods with a wide smile, and then pauses to think.

Eventually she lets out a frustrated sigh and shrugs helplessly as if to suggest that she wanted to add something, but couldn't figure out how to communicate it.

Lan considers her.

She wants to add something; she can't, or won't, say it aloud. He doesn't know what, which makes prompting difficult.

"Do you write?"

Cass shakes her head, frowning as she tries to remember...

Again her voice carries a sense of imitation rather than meaning. "Can't... words."

Lan nods slowly.

He doesn't entirely understand. But the practicalities are what matter; the rest will come.

"Then I am sorry. I don't know what else you are trying to say." He speaks with the same simple, grave courtesy as he has been.

With a frown of concentration, Cass tries again.

She points at Lan, then gestures at her eyes as if to indicate sight, then points at herself. There's a brief pause to consider before she twists her arm a bit awkwardly to tap her self on her own shoulder, then she points to the back door and drops into a relaxed fighting stance.

That takes--

oh, all right.

He thinks.

"Another time, perhaps."

The smile that spreads across her face makes her suddenly look her age. She gives Lan an enthusiastic nod and another respectful bow.

Perhaps covers many eventualities; still, Lan's craggy face lightens infinitesimally in response to her smile. (To Cass's eyes, at least, probably; otherwise, it would take someone who knew him very, very well to spot the shift of expression.)

He returns the bow, touching fingertips briefly to hilt in response to her formality.

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