Of all the "fine" folk this city has lead to my doorstep, you just might be the first to say that I'm fortunate not to be a fat pig. [Paolo's tone rings... amused. The hand that Jindosh so graciously allowed to remain settled against him squeezes, squeezes in the way that kind common folk who've been given a reprieve from long hours do, sans the unawareness for the discomfort it might cause. Paolo is aware. His glance towards the man's face, albeit brief, is searching for a reaction.
His motivation, however, is hidden behind the lines of his eyes when he smiles. Paolo looks ahead and walks on, the hand drifting from Jindosh's shoulder to splay against his back as he subtly steers him for the chambers. There is no pressure in the gesture. His palm is raised off of him, leaving only calloused fingertips.] They come here with their high voices and their long words that they think I'm too uneducated to understand their meaning. But meaning is not always found in definition, mm? It's in intent, and that's easy to read when you've never had to lie. They say, your Grace Paolo—
[He clears his throat, and for a moment it is not as gruff on smoke and sand and dust.] You've not the capacity to properly expend your resources. You would be better to hire an accountant, let me recommend that I—[And in the next moment, it drops to something callous, jaded.]—roll in your dough for you. No. You're right—having nothing means I know what rats scrambling for crumbs look like.
[For a space recently raided by Paolo's howling degenerates, the room is, impressively, still nice by some standards. The piano is still in place, despite the corner of the rug under it still turned up with dust swept under it. The harp's strings are in tact, despite having become a hanger for a woman's worn leather jacket. Beyond the wide arch to the left, fire crackles, bringing a pleasant warmth that does not impose, does not draw sweat, combating the cool air ebbing in from the balcony door's seams. There are scrapes along the tile from furniture being moved, and the upholstery of the couch has been coated by a few quilts that obviously weren't professionally knitted, stains and tears all across their patterned squares. There are books littered in stacks below the shelves, and a few lie atop the table alongside a half-full bottle of Orbon Rum.
It is not sleek. It is not immaculate. But it is just fine in Paolo's eyes, as well as his apparent destination. His hand leaves Jindosh's back to stride for the tray of glasses left on the nearby long table. He nudges one of the cabinet doors shut, jars of something obscured before they can be observed. Ahead, in the next room, the former queen's pigments have been replaced ink's of tattoo station, canvases replaced with boards of Mindy's design. Beyond that, the bedroom is dim.] You know, I uh—I think the honesty's refreshing, and—
[He turns, raising a finger around the glass to point at Jindosh.] —very interesting. You have my time and my hospitality, Kirin Jindosh. Do not waste it.
no subject
His motivation, however, is hidden behind the lines of his eyes when he smiles. Paolo looks ahead and walks on, the hand drifting from Jindosh's shoulder to splay against his back as he subtly steers him for the chambers. There is no pressure in the gesture. His palm is raised off of him, leaving only calloused fingertips.] They come here with their high voices and their long words that they think I'm too uneducated to understand their meaning. But meaning is not always found in definition, mm? It's in intent, and that's easy to read when you've never had to lie. They say, your Grace Paolo—
[He clears his throat, and for a moment it is not as gruff on smoke and sand and dust.] You've not the capacity to properly expend your resources. You would be better to hire an accountant, let me recommend that I—[And in the next moment, it drops to something callous, jaded.]—roll in your dough for you. No. You're right—having nothing means I know what rats scrambling for crumbs look like.
[For a space recently raided by Paolo's howling degenerates, the room is, impressively, still nice by some standards. The piano is still in place, despite the corner of the rug under it still turned up with dust swept under it. The harp's strings are in tact, despite having become a hanger for a woman's worn leather jacket. Beyond the wide arch to the left, fire crackles, bringing a pleasant warmth that does not impose, does not draw sweat, combating the cool air ebbing in from the balcony door's seams. There are scrapes along the tile from furniture being moved, and the upholstery of the couch has been coated by a few quilts that obviously weren't professionally knitted, stains and tears all across their patterned squares. There are books littered in stacks below the shelves, and a few lie atop the table alongside a half-full bottle of Orbon Rum.
It is not sleek. It is not immaculate. But it is just fine in Paolo's eyes, as well as his apparent destination. His hand leaves Jindosh's back to stride for the tray of glasses left on the nearby long table. He nudges one of the cabinet doors shut, jars of something obscured before they can be observed. Ahead, in the next room, the former queen's pigments have been replaced ink's of tattoo station, canvases replaced with boards of Mindy's design. Beyond that, the bedroom is dim.] You know, I uh—I think the honesty's refreshing, and—
[He turns, raising a finger around the glass to point at Jindosh.] —very interesting. You have my time and my hospitality, Kirin Jindosh. Do not waste it.