[ Well, if he didn't want her to watch, he would have shut the door. So she does with an anthropological curiosity. She's never seen a surface male go thru his morning routine before. A thought occurs: ]
Do surface males not wear proper beards because of the sun?
[ It should probably be offputting, her scrutiny, but simply it isn't. His hair is swooped into place with careful and practiced comb strokes, held, checked in the mirror, and tied.
He takes up the necktie he'd tossed next to the mirror. The surface on which its placed looked to be a writing desk in another life. ]
I didn't see much of the sun, by the time I was capable, [ he says, and clarifies, ] of a beard.
[ He opens the draw, putting away grooming implements. ]
It is preference. Preferred among gentlemen, and the fashion of my Circle.
[ The mysteries of the surface are innumerable and her theory was perfectly reasonable, sir. With the interesting part over with, she busies herself with neatly peeling one of the oranges. The peel gets tucked neatly away in her pocket. ]
I suppose you're right. [ She looks around with a slight frown, casting a belated judgement on their surroundings. ]
It's imposing enough for one, but they might have done a better job on the windows. We wouldn't have had nearly as many sick from the gripe last year if it didn't get so drafty.
[ It's never too early to go into a tirade about the standards of living within the Gallows, the things he witnessed and likewise experienced, but it is not a tirade he feels like expending his energy on for the likes of Sister Sara.
He likes her, but she has her place.
Marcus ceases to take bait or offer back returning query—half-formed questions around underground males and their beards had flitted by but gone unspoken—as he finishes readying himself, tightening then last boot lace, and then collecting up his iron staff.
Not that he anticipates having to use it, but once he was taking a meal in the dining hall, and someone turned into an Abomination. The staff stays with him. ]
[ She hardly notices, carefully pulling the orange in half and eating one section by section with mild grumblings about insulation and night time vapors. She gives him the other half of the orange (no, he does not get a choice) and hauls up her basket. ]
Off we go then. [As tho it were an undertaking. The kitchens aren't a terribly far trek, but her legs are much shorter than his and she's already the sort to hurry when she's a task in mind. ]
[ Marcus is at least somewhat accustomed to the easy pace that is following Sara around. He should probably offer to take up the orange basket, but his physical prowesses are already being exploited and so takes the time instead to pick apart the orange and eat it instead, careful not to make a mess of himself as he does by slipping each slice whole into his mouth.
It is a sufficiently engaging activity that he decides the errand to be worth it. ]
[ It hardly occurs to Sawbones to ask for help carrying the basket and she's scurrying into the kitchen like a rumpled nightmare before long anyway. ]
Pardon us. [ It's late enough that the chaos of peak cooking hours have passed and there's room on the big preparation table for what she has in mind. She turns to Marcus and hefts up the basket, nodding to the space. Set it up there please. And the pot is up there.
[ She points to a very large pot on top of a cupboard. It's big enough for Sawbones to fit inside easily. ]
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no subject
Do surface males not wear proper beards because of the sun?
no subject
He takes up the necktie he'd tossed next to the mirror. The surface on which its placed looked to be a writing desk in another life. ]
I didn't see much of the sun, by the time I was capable, [ he says, and clarifies, ] of a beard.
[ He opens the draw, putting away grooming implements. ]
It is preference. Preferred among gentlemen, and the fashion of my Circle.
no subject
Blast. I had a theory that the movement of the sun reflection off mirrors was the reason.
[ It's a little boring to find it's merely fashion. She chases the other curious thing he's said instead. ]
I've never seen any of the Circles, do they not have sunlight? [ That sounds rather pleasant. ]
no subject
More than the underground gets, [ he cedes. ] But you're wrong about that. You're standing in the Gallows, aren't you?
[ He stands up, roams to his wardrobe to retrieve waistcoat and jacket. ]
no subject
I suppose you're right. [ She looks around with a slight frown, casting a belated judgement on their surroundings. ]
It's imposing enough for one, but they might have done a better job on the windows. We wouldn't have had nearly as many sick from the gripe last year if it didn't get so drafty.
no subject
[ It's never too early to go into a tirade about the standards of living within the Gallows, the things he witnessed and likewise experienced, but it is not a tirade he feels like expending his energy on for the likes of Sister Sara.
He likes her, but she has her place.
Marcus ceases to take bait or offer back returning query—half-formed questions around underground males and their beards had flitted by but gone unspoken—as he finishes readying himself, tightening then last boot lace, and then collecting up his iron staff.
Not that he anticipates having to use it, but once he was taking a meal in the dining hall, and someone turned into an Abomination. The staff stays with him. ]
Alright, [ he prompts. Lead the way. ]
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Off we go then. [As tho it were an undertaking. The kitchens aren't a terribly far trek, but her legs are much shorter than his and she's already the sort to hurry when she's a task in mind. ]
no subject
It is a sufficiently engaging activity that he decides the errand to be worth it. ]
no subject
Pardon us. [ It's late enough that the chaos of peak cooking hours have passed and there's room on the big preparation table for what she has in mind. She turns to Marcus and hefts up the basket, nodding to the space. Set it up there please. And the pot is up there.
[ She points to a very large pot on top of a cupboard. It's big enough for Sawbones to fit inside easily. ]