three. voice & private & spam. glory & gore go hand in hand.

[indispensible]

If there were people who wanted to learn to dance, I know . . . other kinds.

I don't know how to cha-cha. Mark can teach that one once he wakes up. [:|]

[Also, Nathan, you don't get a choice.]

private } stark

[You probably don't get a choice either.]

What are you doing.

private } kelsier

I need to.

We should talk.

spam } marsh

[Vin is currently playing a stimulating game of 'acclimatize myself to Marsh's presence', which manifests in following him around for five-minute bursts at random times of day, whenever he emerges from his sad cocoon. She's not making a particular effort to conceal herself in any way at all. She just knows he won't do it.]

private } arya

I don't know your warden. How is she?

spam } polly

[Now Vin is playing a rousing game of 'follow Polly around to figure out her habits and possibly weaknesses'. Still not making a tremendous effort to hide her presence.]

private } morgana

I saw you in the breach. You smiled more, then. [Slightly bemused by this.]

spam } open

[She probably didn't realize the extent to which she felt trapped, before now. But while she isn't precisely happy, her step is a little lighter, especially with her wolfhound at her side.]

[She spends hours in the CES, once she catches an iteration of it with brightest skies and most sharply defined white clouds. Almost no time on the ground, though - she practices with coins, pleased not to be able to rely on metal in the deck for jumps. It's the work of precision and angles that pleases her.]

[After a few hours of this, she rests at the top of a smallish pine tree, examining its sap, while Clifford sits at the root and whines at her to get down occasionally.]

Comments

[routemistress]

Those are good too. I don't know nearly enough about your world; formal dances tell you a lot about a culture, I find.

[indispensible]

Why haven't you asked, if you want to know?

[routemistress]

I try not to interrogate folk if I don't 'ave to. It's rude and makes 'em uncooperative. Any road, I didn't think of dances till you brought it up.

[indispensible]

Yes. It is rude.

[HEM]

These won't tell you more than a quarter of the story.

Why do you have to know how to dance anyway?

[routemistress]

[Iris grins, unrepentant.]

I like you too, dear. Diplomatic work. It 'elps, when you're trying to broker a peace between obnoxious intergalactic empires, if you can talk an ambassador round on the dance floor without treading on their toes. Or equivalent appendage, I'm not picky.

And stories are better unfolded at their own pace.

[indispensible]

I don't like you, and I'm not your dear. Because I'm not currently being an ambassador for anything.

The dance floor is - was - an alternate setting for political deals. Courtship, alliances, backstabbing. [Dances have to be slow, so that dumbass nobles can think and dance at the same time, you know.] Some dances were faster, none were fast. And folk dancing was discouraged. [With repercussions.]

I'm going to expect you at lessons.

[routemistress]

[Still grinning.]

You don't 'ave to. I can like you just fine on me own. I'll be there.

[indispensible]

I'll see you, then.

[She will step on your toes Iris just you wait u_u]