Games We Play
Location: Sefton's Office
Time: afternoon on Day 1, Month 5, Turn 2
Players: Roa and Sefton
Scene: Roa wants a favor from the Headmaster.
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Late afternoon and the weather reflects the mood of the Reaches. Grey. Dismal. Aida's missing. A caucus instructor murdered, her daughter next on the list. The lower caverns in quiet turmoil, rumors left and right. It's enough to...well. It's enough. Down the corridor towards the Headmaster's office walks the little Telgari weyrwoman. She is trailed by Cavel, the man that is perhaps the least interested in getting anywhere near Sefton. And maybe, just maybe, that is why Roa has chosen this hour to pay a visit. A soft knock announces her arrival.
It is a reflection of the mood that Sefton is to be found in his quarters at this hour. When his voice rings out, it lacks his usual amused, mocking dare to come and entertain him -- instead, his response is flat. "Come." He speaks after just a long enough pause that he might have been debating whether or not to admit to being home. The door is unlocked, and inside he is not to be found sprawled on the couch as usual, but rather sitting at his desk, writing, one hand holding his curls from his face. The usual strong drink, however, is not absent.
The knob turns, the door opens, and in steps Roa. Cavel, it appears, is far more than pleased to wait just outside. He'll keep a close eye on that door. You betcha. It closes behind Roa with a soft *snickt*. "Afternoon, sir," she says by way of announcing herself. The 'good' that ought to come before 'afternoon', gently omitted. She walks quietly to the seat before the desk, lowers herself into it, and settles her hands in her lap.
Sefton doesn't look up, although one of the fingers raked through his hair extends, bidding her remain -- he continues to scribble for several more lines before he sets his pen aside, carefully settling it in the stand. "Good afternoon, Roa." He is grave -- what else can he be? -- but his drawl is as lazy as ever, stringing every possible syllable, every possible vowel out of the words. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'd like to ask you a favor, sir." The little Telgari's gaze settles on the man from Boll. These, she believes, are some magic words. If anything will inspire a bit of the usual well-practiced mirth from the Headmaster, those words just might be it. Or so Roa thinks, at any rate.
She draws something, at any rate. Sefton's lips press together, then twist, and if the smile is not as kind as it might be, at least it is present. His letter is picked up between two fingers, and waved gently as he speaks, once, twice, three times. "Then you had better tell me what it is you would like from me," he replies, dark gaze fixing on her.
A small inhale, a small exhale, and Roa is quiet for a long moment, studying the desk between them. "Lessons," she says finally. Softly. "On a specific topic that I believe you are skilled at. I have..." Her eyes glance up, slide away again, "when I become nervous, or anxious, while I can school my voice and face to a certain degree, I have mannerisms. That give me away." The fingers of one hand have, indeed, begun squeezing and tugging on the fingers of the other, and with a small sound of annoyance, hands curl into fists and sit by her side. "I would like some assistance in controlling them."
Sefton's brows quirk a little at her first word, and he leans forward to set his hide down atop a stack -- she has engaged his interest, at least. He eases back in his chair, legs stretching slowly under the desk -- he tilts his head sideways to check that his feet will not collide with hers, his curls falling into his eyes. "Do you mean to suggest that I suffer nervousness, or anxiety, Roa?" The brief flash of humour is dark, quickly banished.
Dark brows elevate just slightly at that interpretation. "No sir," amends Roa, "What I mean to suggest is that you have a talent for cultivating outward mannerisms based on what you would like others to perceive rather than any internal instructions from your emotions. I would like, very much, to begin to practice that same skill."
"I choose to believe," Sefton responds, lips quirking once more, "that you intend on flattering me." He shifts abruptly, pulling his legs back in and coming to his feet so that he can move out from behind his desk. "What will you drink, Roa? Something from my home?" He moves past her, and is inspecting the collection of bottles on his shelf as he speaks again. "Few of my students seem only to perceive the need for such a lesson."
Roa's own lips quirk upwards a tiny bit. A tired half smile. "Thank you sir. Something sweeter, if you please." Another slow, deep breath is stolen as hands resettle into her lap, fingers forcibly relaxing. "Since what you choose to believe seems to have placed you in slightly higher spirits, I see no reason to debate it." Bold today, isn't she.
She is bold indeed, and that draws a glance over his shoulder for a moment -- he contemplates the back of her head, and then reaches for a bottle, pouring a measure slowly as he speaks, his low drawl a counterpoint to the higher glug glug glug. "What should I believe instead, Roa? That my ability to shield what I think is something to be disparaged? Not so, if you would learn it." The stopped goes back in the bottle, and it's replaced so that he can claim a second, to pour a different glass.
"I suppose it's only the use of the word 'flattery'," Roa muses as her ankles uncross and recross. "The term has always sounded to me to be demeaning. To be able to flatter someone implies the flatterer has some sort of superiority. Or that the thing being noted is of menial importance. I..." She closes her eyes and sighs quietly. "My goal was to compliment. Not flatter. And certainly not disparage."
"You pick your words apart too carefully," Sefton observes, filling the second glass. "What has happened, to teach you to do that in my presence?" Again, a dark flash of humour threads through his drawl when he asks that question. Then the stopped is pushed into the bottle, and he crosses back once more, leaning over her shoulder to set down her drink before her, then circling around the desk with his own. His former drink is pushed aside with one finger -- the ice he procured from somewhere has almost melted, and it the vessel disappears behind a stack of hides. "Rest your hands on the arms of your chair, Roa."
"I think sir," and now there is a flash of humor in Roa's expression, mischievous, "it was being in your presence." As her glass is set down, the Telgari leans forward, one hand lifting to pick it up, but that's when Sefton speaks. Her gaze jumps from the glass to the Headmaster, and then she wordlessly leans back and complies. Hands settle, flat, on the arms of her chair. It's not a posture Roa would normal take on her own, and it looks it. Accentuates her own smallness within a chair made for those of average or greater height.
"Was it just?" Sefton is amused, easing back down into his chair slowly, fingers curling around his glass. "Then you were paying attention, Roa. Well done." He studies her over the rim of his glass as she complies with his request -- or his instruction -- then shakes his head. "That won't work, you look like a child. Have your drink. You need to form a habit other than wringing your hands like a widow whenever you are concerned. The right habit will be one you carry on even when you are /not/ concerned."
She straightens again, the posture of arms on armrests having caused a slight slouch. Roa once more leans forward and picks up the glass, taking a small sip of the beverage inside. Bollian liqueur has yet to disappoint. The glass is lowered to her lap and her other hand lifts, as if to move towards it, but then stops, fingers curling, hand resettling into her lap. "I am rather aware of the hand wringing. When I don't think on it, I do it. When I do think on it, it feels as if all I'm doing it trying not to wring my hands, and all my other thoughts must first squeeze around that one." Another tiny twist of her lips. "I fidget. With everything. This is going to be a bit of an undertaking."
Only after she has sipped does he, eyes closing for a moment as he tilts his head back swallow. "What you need is a habit that is perpetual. So that those who watch it cannot distinguish the way in which you practice it when distressed from the way in which you practice it when entirely at ease. Something to do with your hands, or else pockets to keep them in." This small speech warrants another mouthful, and he takes it, propping his chin up on one fist to study her. "Beads, perhaps, to turn over between your fingers. Perhaps you saw them used at Boll." A brief pause, and his eyes narrow before he retrieves a name. "Selta, your hostess, used them."
Roa's brows lift. "She did, yes. That...beads might work." Her head tips a little to the side and she allows herself another tiny sip. "Forgive me, sir, but, is that why you keep your hair long?" Brows are ached, and she blinks slowly. The whole thing's become rather fascinating.
"I will ask Kelar to include some when he next writes," Sefton replies, once more easing into his chair -- he inhabits it comfortably, a lazy king sprawled on his throne, regarding her with his chin perched atop his fist once more. "I keep my hair long for several reasons, Roa. If you would like to know my secrets, though, you will have to tell me yours." Now the dark amusement has moved in to stay -- Sian's death is too recent, perhaps, for his usual easy, mocking, but Sefton is laughing behind those dark eyes.
"Well then, sir," and Roa leans a bit to the side, mimicking his posture by propping her own chin on her own fist. "Your secrets are quite safe." She is silent for a little while, just sitting that way. It suits her better than both arms on the chair. More relaxed. Almost playful. One fingertip tap-tap-taps against the side of the glass she holds in her lap, but the tic stills as soon as the Telgari realizes she's doing it.
"Roa, Roa..." Sefton mock-mourns, lifting his chin for a moment so that he can shake his head at her. "For a brief moment there, you promised to become interesting. How disappointing." If he does not notice her tapping when it begins, he notices when it halts, and nods toward her hand as he settles his chin atop his fist once more. "If you are to cut off a movement, you should not do it that suddenly."
Roa glances down at the offending digit and only nods once. But she leaves it still for now. Setting it tapping again only seems silly. "More subtle," she murmurs. "I am interesting, sir," she quips lightly, glancing up at him. "I am just not informative." She readjusts her hand so the fingers are open and cup her cheek when she returns her head to the resting spot. "This feels odd too. Like I'm planning to take a nap." She sits up straight, resettling the one hand in her lap besides the other which holds the glass. "Keeping one hand preoccupied does seem to settle the other."
"I accept the correction," Sefton concedes with a short bark of laughter, raising his drink to her point, and then raising it to his lips. "Cultivating mannerisms is not as easy to do as one might hope. If it were, the world would be a far less interesting place. Habits take time to form. Perhaps what you might consider doing, rather than masking your reaction to those around you, is changing your reaction instead."
The fact that she was able to get a laugh from the Headmaster calls another smile to Roa's lips, though this one is almost shy. Her eyes slide downward, but she saves the gesture from becoming bashful by lifting the glass at the same time, carrying it to her lips, and taking a tiny sip. "I must admit, as hard as cultivating mannerisms may be, I suspect changing my reaction to something would be even harder. Could you explain more, please?"
Sefton considers her request over another mouthful, then sets his glass down, pushing it away so that he can laze in his chair and regard her at his leisure. "Changing your reaction would be considerably harder," he agrees. "It would, I should say, also be more interesting." He lingers over the word, reflecting her tone for a moment. "Rewarding, even. You behave the way you do because you are nervous. I would not find it a challenge to put you at ease, or to intimidate you, or distress you, and draw an appropriate reaction. You might consider addressing the root of that problem. The illness, as the healers would say, rather than the symptoms."
The Telgari's expression, so recently a small smile, has faded away into an impassive neutrality. To her credit, the hand with the glass lifts again, the other coming to dangle on the armrest, and neither hand strains for the other. "You're probably right," Roa concedes, "but as that cannot be done, I shall have to work on minimizing the, as you say, symptoms rather than the root."
"Two disappointments in ten minutes," Sefton chides, suddenly -- and obviously -- a little less interested. His gaze strays up to the bookshelves, resting on the neat rows of volumes, lined up with a precision that's wildly at odds with his messy quarters. "And I thought, just for a moment, that you had come to have some fun with me, Roa. I had greater hopes. Very well, we shall speak of altering your behaviour."
"It has," Roa notes softly, "been a rather bad week. I'm not in my best form nor of a mind to be yet one more student that leaves, sniffling, from your office. You shall have to forgive me if your disinterest is preferable." Another tiny sip. "Please. Let's."
"You are not that sort." To that brief dismissal Sefton adds a flick of his fingers, declining to bring his gaze down from the books he's studying with vague interest. "I would say that if your situation in the world displeases you, that is /exactly/ the time to set about changing it, rather than simply masking it. It will not get any easier, Roa." It is now that his gaze comes down, dwelling on her for a moment before he speaks again. "I will find someone to address the way you walk. I will obtain beads for you. There are other areas you should consider. Eye contact, posture, your speech."
"Certain things are immutable. One cannot, for example, change one's eye color no matter how much it should displease. The best that can be managed is to detract from or embrace the flaw and move from there. Not everything is a matter of sheer willpower, sir." After this little lecture is delivered, Roa quiets and listens as Sefton ticks off things. To each point, she gives a tiny nod.
Sefton flicks his fingers once more, dismissing her point. "One never need change one's eye colour, Roa. One changes the fashion, if it is an issue. I must differ from you. I would say that anything I wish to achieve, I can achieve through force of will. If I am clever, and thoughtful, and patient." He inhales slowly, puffing out his cheeks as he exhales -- the breath is directed upwards, although it does not shift his hair from his eyes. "Eye contact should be used as a tool -- do not grant everybody your immediate attention. Ration it. Be aware, however, that there is a line to be drawn between appearing disinterested and appearing too silly to pay attention."
"But you prove my point, sir. Things can be manipulated and maneuvered to place flaws in fashionable light. Rumors can be started and pasts well hidden, outward appearances shaped for success and power. But this does not change the fact that at the root, there is something rigid and unaltering that must be worked around." Her finger is again tap-tapping against the glass, though this time she quiets it into an idly rubbing motion before ceasing all together. Again, with Sefton's second portion, Roa only nods. "Utilize eye contact," she reiterates.
"The fact that you allow others to intimidate you," Sefton returns, drawl suddenly deepening, gaining a note that might be irritation, and might be a reproof, "should not be something that is rigid and unaltering. It is something that /should/ be altered, and must be." Further advice on posture or eye contact is foregone, and he continues on his current line. "What do you imagine you are preparing for, Roa?"
At the chastisement, it's clear that the weyrwoman's gaze is just begging to slip away. To find a nice, safe corner to hide. But it's a challenge now and after a moment of wavering, blue regard relaxes itself squarely on Sefton's face as he speaks. As he asks her his question. "The world," is Roa's simple answer. "Change."
If she wins herself any points for holding firm, there's no outward sign of it. Sefton simply regards her in silence for several moments, neutral. "Do you intend on being that change, Roa, or witnessing it?" This question is low, intensity increasing a notch as his drawl remains at that deeper, firmer pitch.
Roa's lips quirk upwards only the tiniest bit. He has wandered into the trap that any English teacher will warn you of when you begin grammar. Do you intend on being that change or witnessing it? Her answer: "Yes."
A beat, as Sefton processes her reply, but there's no quirk of his lips for her this time. "I would help you, Roa." A rarity indeed -- he sounds tired, raking his hair back from his eyes once more. "But it has, as you say, been something of an eventful week. Return another day, and consider whether or not it is to your benefit to bring your games with you."
Roa straightens in her chair. This shall surely be a day the Telgari remembers. The Headmaster, the politics teacher, the controversial man himself, has told her to quit playing games. She leans lightly forward to set the glass down. "If I were to leave my games behind, I would expect the same from you. Sir." Hands do come to the armrests now, but only to push herself up and out of the chair. "I'll leave you to your tasks."
For a moment, Sefton is set to respond -- then his fingers come up to flick one more dismissal, and he's reaching for hide and pen once more, intent upon continuing his letter. He waits, in fact, until she is at the door before he speaks. "The evening after tomorrow, Roa, and that evening, every week. After dinner."
At the doorway, about to step through and join Cavel again, she pause, turns, and looks back towards the man in black seated behind his desk. No words. Only a single, visible nod, and then she's through the door and gone.
Time: afternoon on Day 1, Month 5, Turn 2
Players: Roa and Sefton
Scene: Roa wants a favor from the Headmaster.
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Late afternoon and the weather reflects the mood of the Reaches. Grey. Dismal. Aida's missing. A caucus instructor murdered, her daughter next on the list. The lower caverns in quiet turmoil, rumors left and right. It's enough to...well. It's enough. Down the corridor towards the Headmaster's office walks the little Telgari weyrwoman. She is trailed by Cavel, the man that is perhaps the least interested in getting anywhere near Sefton. And maybe, just maybe, that is why Roa has chosen this hour to pay a visit. A soft knock announces her arrival.
It is a reflection of the mood that Sefton is to be found in his quarters at this hour. When his voice rings out, it lacks his usual amused, mocking dare to come and entertain him -- instead, his response is flat. "Come." He speaks after just a long enough pause that he might have been debating whether or not to admit to being home. The door is unlocked, and inside he is not to be found sprawled on the couch as usual, but rather sitting at his desk, writing, one hand holding his curls from his face. The usual strong drink, however, is not absent.
The knob turns, the door opens, and in steps Roa. Cavel, it appears, is far more than pleased to wait just outside. He'll keep a close eye on that door. You betcha. It closes behind Roa with a soft *snickt*. "Afternoon, sir," she says by way of announcing herself. The 'good' that ought to come before 'afternoon', gently omitted. She walks quietly to the seat before the desk, lowers herself into it, and settles her hands in her lap.
Sefton doesn't look up, although one of the fingers raked through his hair extends, bidding her remain -- he continues to scribble for several more lines before he sets his pen aside, carefully settling it in the stand. "Good afternoon, Roa." He is grave -- what else can he be? -- but his drawl is as lazy as ever, stringing every possible syllable, every possible vowel out of the words. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'd like to ask you a favor, sir." The little Telgari's gaze settles on the man from Boll. These, she believes, are some magic words. If anything will inspire a bit of the usual well-practiced mirth from the Headmaster, those words just might be it. Or so Roa thinks, at any rate.
She draws something, at any rate. Sefton's lips press together, then twist, and if the smile is not as kind as it might be, at least it is present. His letter is picked up between two fingers, and waved gently as he speaks, once, twice, three times. "Then you had better tell me what it is you would like from me," he replies, dark gaze fixing on her.
A small inhale, a small exhale, and Roa is quiet for a long moment, studying the desk between them. "Lessons," she says finally. Softly. "On a specific topic that I believe you are skilled at. I have..." Her eyes glance up, slide away again, "when I become nervous, or anxious, while I can school my voice and face to a certain degree, I have mannerisms. That give me away." The fingers of one hand have, indeed, begun squeezing and tugging on the fingers of the other, and with a small sound of annoyance, hands curl into fists and sit by her side. "I would like some assistance in controlling them."
Sefton's brows quirk a little at her first word, and he leans forward to set his hide down atop a stack -- she has engaged his interest, at least. He eases back in his chair, legs stretching slowly under the desk -- he tilts his head sideways to check that his feet will not collide with hers, his curls falling into his eyes. "Do you mean to suggest that I suffer nervousness, or anxiety, Roa?" The brief flash of humour is dark, quickly banished.
Dark brows elevate just slightly at that interpretation. "No sir," amends Roa, "What I mean to suggest is that you have a talent for cultivating outward mannerisms based on what you would like others to perceive rather than any internal instructions from your emotions. I would like, very much, to begin to practice that same skill."
"I choose to believe," Sefton responds, lips quirking once more, "that you intend on flattering me." He shifts abruptly, pulling his legs back in and coming to his feet so that he can move out from behind his desk. "What will you drink, Roa? Something from my home?" He moves past her, and is inspecting the collection of bottles on his shelf as he speaks again. "Few of my students seem only to perceive the need for such a lesson."
Roa's own lips quirk upwards a tiny bit. A tired half smile. "Thank you sir. Something sweeter, if you please." Another slow, deep breath is stolen as hands resettle into her lap, fingers forcibly relaxing. "Since what you choose to believe seems to have placed you in slightly higher spirits, I see no reason to debate it." Bold today, isn't she.
She is bold indeed, and that draws a glance over his shoulder for a moment -- he contemplates the back of her head, and then reaches for a bottle, pouring a measure slowly as he speaks, his low drawl a counterpoint to the higher glug glug glug. "What should I believe instead, Roa? That my ability to shield what I think is something to be disparaged? Not so, if you would learn it." The stopped goes back in the bottle, and it's replaced so that he can claim a second, to pour a different glass.
"I suppose it's only the use of the word 'flattery'," Roa muses as her ankles uncross and recross. "The term has always sounded to me to be demeaning. To be able to flatter someone implies the flatterer has some sort of superiority. Or that the thing being noted is of menial importance. I..." She closes her eyes and sighs quietly. "My goal was to compliment. Not flatter. And certainly not disparage."
"You pick your words apart too carefully," Sefton observes, filling the second glass. "What has happened, to teach you to do that in my presence?" Again, a dark flash of humour threads through his drawl when he asks that question. Then the stopped is pushed into the bottle, and he crosses back once more, leaning over her shoulder to set down her drink before her, then circling around the desk with his own. His former drink is pushed aside with one finger -- the ice he procured from somewhere has almost melted, and it the vessel disappears behind a stack of hides. "Rest your hands on the arms of your chair, Roa."
"I think sir," and now there is a flash of humor in Roa's expression, mischievous, "it was being in your presence." As her glass is set down, the Telgari leans forward, one hand lifting to pick it up, but that's when Sefton speaks. Her gaze jumps from the glass to the Headmaster, and then she wordlessly leans back and complies. Hands settle, flat, on the arms of her chair. It's not a posture Roa would normal take on her own, and it looks it. Accentuates her own smallness within a chair made for those of average or greater height.
"Was it just?" Sefton is amused, easing back down into his chair slowly, fingers curling around his glass. "Then you were paying attention, Roa. Well done." He studies her over the rim of his glass as she complies with his request -- or his instruction -- then shakes his head. "That won't work, you look like a child. Have your drink. You need to form a habit other than wringing your hands like a widow whenever you are concerned. The right habit will be one you carry on even when you are /not/ concerned."
She straightens again, the posture of arms on armrests having caused a slight slouch. Roa once more leans forward and picks up the glass, taking a small sip of the beverage inside. Bollian liqueur has yet to disappoint. The glass is lowered to her lap and her other hand lifts, as if to move towards it, but then stops, fingers curling, hand resettling into her lap. "I am rather aware of the hand wringing. When I don't think on it, I do it. When I do think on it, it feels as if all I'm doing it trying not to wring my hands, and all my other thoughts must first squeeze around that one." Another tiny twist of her lips. "I fidget. With everything. This is going to be a bit of an undertaking."
Only after she has sipped does he, eyes closing for a moment as he tilts his head back swallow. "What you need is a habit that is perpetual. So that those who watch it cannot distinguish the way in which you practice it when distressed from the way in which you practice it when entirely at ease. Something to do with your hands, or else pockets to keep them in." This small speech warrants another mouthful, and he takes it, propping his chin up on one fist to study her. "Beads, perhaps, to turn over between your fingers. Perhaps you saw them used at Boll." A brief pause, and his eyes narrow before he retrieves a name. "Selta, your hostess, used them."
Roa's brows lift. "She did, yes. That...beads might work." Her head tips a little to the side and she allows herself another tiny sip. "Forgive me, sir, but, is that why you keep your hair long?" Brows are ached, and she blinks slowly. The whole thing's become rather fascinating.
"I will ask Kelar to include some when he next writes," Sefton replies, once more easing into his chair -- he inhabits it comfortably, a lazy king sprawled on his throne, regarding her with his chin perched atop his fist once more. "I keep my hair long for several reasons, Roa. If you would like to know my secrets, though, you will have to tell me yours." Now the dark amusement has moved in to stay -- Sian's death is too recent, perhaps, for his usual easy, mocking, but Sefton is laughing behind those dark eyes.
"Well then, sir," and Roa leans a bit to the side, mimicking his posture by propping her own chin on her own fist. "Your secrets are quite safe." She is silent for a little while, just sitting that way. It suits her better than both arms on the chair. More relaxed. Almost playful. One fingertip tap-tap-taps against the side of the glass she holds in her lap, but the tic stills as soon as the Telgari realizes she's doing it.
"Roa, Roa..." Sefton mock-mourns, lifting his chin for a moment so that he can shake his head at her. "For a brief moment there, you promised to become interesting. How disappointing." If he does not notice her tapping when it begins, he notices when it halts, and nods toward her hand as he settles his chin atop his fist once more. "If you are to cut off a movement, you should not do it that suddenly."
Roa glances down at the offending digit and only nods once. But she leaves it still for now. Setting it tapping again only seems silly. "More subtle," she murmurs. "I am interesting, sir," she quips lightly, glancing up at him. "I am just not informative." She readjusts her hand so the fingers are open and cup her cheek when she returns her head to the resting spot. "This feels odd too. Like I'm planning to take a nap." She sits up straight, resettling the one hand in her lap besides the other which holds the glass. "Keeping one hand preoccupied does seem to settle the other."
"I accept the correction," Sefton concedes with a short bark of laughter, raising his drink to her point, and then raising it to his lips. "Cultivating mannerisms is not as easy to do as one might hope. If it were, the world would be a far less interesting place. Habits take time to form. Perhaps what you might consider doing, rather than masking your reaction to those around you, is changing your reaction instead."
The fact that she was able to get a laugh from the Headmaster calls another smile to Roa's lips, though this one is almost shy. Her eyes slide downward, but she saves the gesture from becoming bashful by lifting the glass at the same time, carrying it to her lips, and taking a tiny sip. "I must admit, as hard as cultivating mannerisms may be, I suspect changing my reaction to something would be even harder. Could you explain more, please?"
Sefton considers her request over another mouthful, then sets his glass down, pushing it away so that he can laze in his chair and regard her at his leisure. "Changing your reaction would be considerably harder," he agrees. "It would, I should say, also be more interesting." He lingers over the word, reflecting her tone for a moment. "Rewarding, even. You behave the way you do because you are nervous. I would not find it a challenge to put you at ease, or to intimidate you, or distress you, and draw an appropriate reaction. You might consider addressing the root of that problem. The illness, as the healers would say, rather than the symptoms."
The Telgari's expression, so recently a small smile, has faded away into an impassive neutrality. To her credit, the hand with the glass lifts again, the other coming to dangle on the armrest, and neither hand strains for the other. "You're probably right," Roa concedes, "but as that cannot be done, I shall have to work on minimizing the, as you say, symptoms rather than the root."
"Two disappointments in ten minutes," Sefton chides, suddenly -- and obviously -- a little less interested. His gaze strays up to the bookshelves, resting on the neat rows of volumes, lined up with a precision that's wildly at odds with his messy quarters. "And I thought, just for a moment, that you had come to have some fun with me, Roa. I had greater hopes. Very well, we shall speak of altering your behaviour."
"It has," Roa notes softly, "been a rather bad week. I'm not in my best form nor of a mind to be yet one more student that leaves, sniffling, from your office. You shall have to forgive me if your disinterest is preferable." Another tiny sip. "Please. Let's."
"You are not that sort." To that brief dismissal Sefton adds a flick of his fingers, declining to bring his gaze down from the books he's studying with vague interest. "I would say that if your situation in the world displeases you, that is /exactly/ the time to set about changing it, rather than simply masking it. It will not get any easier, Roa." It is now that his gaze comes down, dwelling on her for a moment before he speaks again. "I will find someone to address the way you walk. I will obtain beads for you. There are other areas you should consider. Eye contact, posture, your speech."
"Certain things are immutable. One cannot, for example, change one's eye color no matter how much it should displease. The best that can be managed is to detract from or embrace the flaw and move from there. Not everything is a matter of sheer willpower, sir." After this little lecture is delivered, Roa quiets and listens as Sefton ticks off things. To each point, she gives a tiny nod.
Sefton flicks his fingers once more, dismissing her point. "One never need change one's eye colour, Roa. One changes the fashion, if it is an issue. I must differ from you. I would say that anything I wish to achieve, I can achieve through force of will. If I am clever, and thoughtful, and patient." He inhales slowly, puffing out his cheeks as he exhales -- the breath is directed upwards, although it does not shift his hair from his eyes. "Eye contact should be used as a tool -- do not grant everybody your immediate attention. Ration it. Be aware, however, that there is a line to be drawn between appearing disinterested and appearing too silly to pay attention."
"But you prove my point, sir. Things can be manipulated and maneuvered to place flaws in fashionable light. Rumors can be started and pasts well hidden, outward appearances shaped for success and power. But this does not change the fact that at the root, there is something rigid and unaltering that must be worked around." Her finger is again tap-tapping against the glass, though this time she quiets it into an idly rubbing motion before ceasing all together. Again, with Sefton's second portion, Roa only nods. "Utilize eye contact," she reiterates.
"The fact that you allow others to intimidate you," Sefton returns, drawl suddenly deepening, gaining a note that might be irritation, and might be a reproof, "should not be something that is rigid and unaltering. It is something that /should/ be altered, and must be." Further advice on posture or eye contact is foregone, and he continues on his current line. "What do you imagine you are preparing for, Roa?"
At the chastisement, it's clear that the weyrwoman's gaze is just begging to slip away. To find a nice, safe corner to hide. But it's a challenge now and after a moment of wavering, blue regard relaxes itself squarely on Sefton's face as he speaks. As he asks her his question. "The world," is Roa's simple answer. "Change."
If she wins herself any points for holding firm, there's no outward sign of it. Sefton simply regards her in silence for several moments, neutral. "Do you intend on being that change, Roa, or witnessing it?" This question is low, intensity increasing a notch as his drawl remains at that deeper, firmer pitch.
Roa's lips quirk upwards only the tiniest bit. He has wandered into the trap that any English teacher will warn you of when you begin grammar. Do you intend on being that change or witnessing it? Her answer: "Yes."
A beat, as Sefton processes her reply, but there's no quirk of his lips for her this time. "I would help you, Roa." A rarity indeed -- he sounds tired, raking his hair back from his eyes once more. "But it has, as you say, been something of an eventful week. Return another day, and consider whether or not it is to your benefit to bring your games with you."
Roa straightens in her chair. This shall surely be a day the Telgari remembers. The Headmaster, the politics teacher, the controversial man himself, has told her to quit playing games. She leans lightly forward to set the glass down. "If I were to leave my games behind, I would expect the same from you. Sir." Hands do come to the armrests now, but only to push herself up and out of the chair. "I'll leave you to your tasks."
For a moment, Sefton is set to respond -- then his fingers come up to flick one more dismissal, and he's reaching for hide and pen once more, intent upon continuing his letter. He waits, in fact, until she is at the door before he speaks. "The evening after tomorrow, Roa, and that evening, every week. After dinner."
At the doorway, about to step through and join Cavel again, she pause, turns, and looks back towards the man in black seated behind his desk. No words. Only a single, visible nod, and then she's through the door and gone.