Now, now, my little inventor, I wouldn't tie your hands. What use would they be to me then?
[Little inventor, the little Duke says, the respect (or lack thereof) returned with a sharpness to it that indicates Jindosh walks a fine line antagonizing him. Paolo may not be Abele with his stomp of foot and red-faced demands, but there's still a danger that laced in the seams of his beaten suit jacket, be it metaphorical or the razors tucked there. The title of Grand Inventor is an absent, far-away thing here, sent out to the open sea with the bodies of the last administration. The man has to lay bait for the other to go fishing it out.
Paolo carries himself back with an air of amusement that sits funny on his face, though, lines of age and stress more suited to a full-teeth scowl. It gives way to a mild sort of interest, harmonized in a hum as he crosses the room and extends one of two glasses, swirling the amber contents before Jindosh's face as he comes to a halt before him. Dunwall Whiskey, distilled by the bottles of the Bottle-Street gang. Solidarity, perhaps, in a fellow lowbrow's work, or maybe just lack of taste.
There's dirt baked under the nail he taps against the tumbler, and there's a swell in his knuckles yellow with old bruising. Paolo doesn't look very handsome, and the fireplace casts enough light on half his face to rat out his exhaustion on top of his ugly mug. The day's not even over, dinner hasn't been served, and here he is, entertaining a stranger with reliance on drink. He clears his throat, juts out his chin with a... wink? How crass.]
Unless you got me in the right mood, hm? I like a challenge, just like you. [hohoho] No wall I can't climb, no gear I can't grease. No man makes progress sitting in cushy chairs, Kirin Jindosh.
[Whether or not Jindosh accepts the drink, Paolo will retreat a few steps lest he loom over him. The irony of taking a seat after his statement has cursed him to remain standing, so he rolls his neck, loosens his tie, and properly regards his guest's slouch with a slight furrow of brow. Who is this guy?]
You sound pretty certain I'm going to keep your clockwork shit-cans around. Really hasn't passed through that pretty head of yours that the people you sick those things on—[A pull of whiskey, a grimace, a leveled glare oncoming.]—were mine. My Howlers, my miners, my butcher's—so much as any whisper you'll bite the hand that feeds you shit and you're on the cobble, gutted like an animal. Not your investors. We got lucky another killing-machine sailed to town for those, huh?
hey. remember me
[Little inventor, the little Duke says, the respect (or lack thereof) returned with a sharpness to it that indicates Jindosh walks a fine line antagonizing him. Paolo may not be Abele with his stomp of foot and red-faced demands, but there's still a danger that laced in the seams of his beaten suit jacket, be it metaphorical or the razors tucked there. The title of Grand Inventor is an absent, far-away thing here, sent out to the open sea with the bodies of the last administration. The man has to lay bait for the other to go fishing it out.
Paolo carries himself back with an air of amusement that sits funny on his face, though, lines of age and stress more suited to a full-teeth scowl. It gives way to a mild sort of interest, harmonized in a hum as he crosses the room and extends one of two glasses, swirling the amber contents before Jindosh's face as he comes to a halt before him. Dunwall Whiskey, distilled by the bottles of the Bottle-Street gang. Solidarity, perhaps, in a fellow lowbrow's work, or maybe just lack of taste.
There's dirt baked under the nail he taps against the tumbler, and there's a swell in his knuckles yellow with old bruising. Paolo doesn't look very handsome, and the fireplace casts enough light on half his face to rat out his exhaustion on top of his ugly mug. The day's not even over, dinner hasn't been served, and here he is, entertaining a stranger with reliance on drink. He clears his throat, juts out his chin with a... wink? How crass.]
Unless you got me in the right mood, hm? I like a challenge, just like you. [hohoho] No wall I can't climb, no gear I can't grease. No man makes progress sitting in cushy chairs, Kirin Jindosh.
[Whether or not Jindosh accepts the drink, Paolo will retreat a few steps lest he loom over him. The irony of taking a seat after his statement has cursed him to remain standing, so he rolls his neck, loosens his tie, and properly regards his guest's slouch with a slight furrow of brow. Who is this guy?]
You sound pretty certain I'm going to keep your clockwork shit-cans around. Really hasn't passed through that pretty head of yours that the people you sick those things on—[A pull of whiskey, a grimace, a leveled glare oncoming.]—were mine. My Howlers, my miners, my butcher's—so much as any whisper you'll bite the hand that feeds you shit and you're on the cobble, gutted like an animal. Not your investors. We got lucky another killing-machine sailed to town for those, huh?