The university in Markham petitions Riftwatch for assistance in the transfer and ordering of a collection of newly-recovered sketches and unfinished works of a Marcher artist Ellis has never heard of. It's a straightforward task: collect the works from Ostwick, and accompany them to Markham to assist in the unpacking. There is to be a showing, some event where Markham society gathers to admire and perhaps donate for the privilege of viewing the works before anyone else has a chance.
Between them, Leander is here to deal with the material. Ellis is here to be of assistance in the event Leander and the artwork is attacked on the road. Or perhaps to do the heavy lifting. He certainly isn't here because of any expertise, other than a few quiet expressions of admiration during the loading of the cart.
"Is the work any good?" Ellis asks, as they jolt along the road. It's bitingly cold, though Ellis seems largely unbothered by it apart from the red of his cheeks and fingers where they hold the reins.
Leander is likewise pinkened and unbothered in equal measure.
An ostensible chance to use his expertise (such as it is, dearth of formal training aside), a long trip along the road, the risk of trouble, uncommon company in relative solitude: all these ingredients ought to please him. And they do. But there is something else, some rivulet of disquiet, icy liquid carving a path through his entrails, lingering. Always lingering, of late.
(Is this what it means to doubt? How can anyone stand it?)
"That we've been hired as custodians speaks to its value, one way or another." An ambiguous answer, peaceably spoken, shortly followed by a glance back to the canvas-covered carriage behind them. "As to my own preference, I couldn't say. It merits a longer look."
"You'll have it, when we arrive," Ellis points out, a brief smile tipped in Leander's direction. "After we unpack it."
Judiciously passing over that Ellis will likely do most of the unpacking.
He has such sparse knowledge of Leander. Wysteria admires him. He has visited the Hightown house. He has always been polite. He is a mage. He apparently knows something of art.
Ellis is unsure of how to speak to him.
"What is your preference?"
A bold question for someone whose tastes in art is based wholly in gut instinct.
That question, too, merits a longer look. Ambiguous at first, eventually it ends with a particular expression of his: an all-over implication of a smile, without any smile taking place, made possible by the incredibly subtle finesse in the muscles of the human face. Its exact meaning may still be difficult to discern, but that's hardly his problem.
"I've only recently begun to explore that. There's little emphasis on expressive culture in the Circle, you see. Maker forbid we develop any strong interest in the wider world." He's watching a tree as he says this. "But I've always been fond of exploration, or... a sense of mystery. An image that leaves you wondering."
Lest this get too deep too quickly, "Of course, sometimes it's nice just to see a lovely picture of an apple, or something. In the right hands, under the right eye, anything can become beautiful."
Leander turns towards the tree and Ellis makes a study of his face, reins rolling between the fingers of his right hand. There's nothing prohibiting in Leander's expression. Or there's nothing Ellis discerns as prohibiting, not just yet.
What little Ellis knows of Circles comes to him secondhand, in glancing asides traded around campfires or on long, winding journeys not unlike this present expedition. Set against those minor recollections, what Leander mentions fits in alongside the impression Ellis had already formed.
"I've never known anyone who spoke of art that way," Ellis tells him, eyes returning to the road. This is likely unsurprising to hear from a Fereldan Warden, regardless of Ellis' particular background. "But it seems to me that you'd find the apple easier than you'd find anything else."
A beat, then, tacked on almost as if to underscore his obvious shortcomings: "Not that I've seen enough art for you to trust my judgement."
They go bumping over a few small runoff grooves, where some recent rain made its own paths across the road. Leander waits for it to come and go, grasping the side of the cart as they're jostled, so his voice won't sound like it's being run across a washboard.
"Whether or not you're able to express it as some critic might expect, or compare it to this or that work or in whatever context, or what-else, your opinion is what it is, and it's perfectly valid."
The assurance feels like a kindness, as Leander glancingly passes over what has always seemed to Ellis to be a particular deficiency. His reply is similarly delayed, attention diverted to a soft cluck of his tongue in encouragement to the horses and light snap of the reins to spur them on before he directs a brief, sideways flicker of a smile.
"I won't hold you to that," he promises. "Should you decide to take it back on the occasion I do volunteer an opinion."
Some theoretical occasion that Ellis doesn't expect to materialize beyond this outing. There's better company in Riftwatch. He's aware of that.
"You've taught yourself?" Ellis continues, eyes shifting away from Leander back to the road, the reins in his hands. "About art?"
Some theoretical occasion that Leander will keep in mind, should some opportunity arise to bring it about, materializing the imaginary being his speciality—
He tilts his head for the question, this way and then that. "Mmmm, yes and no. I did have a mentor for a time—a year or so. The rest I suppose you'd call self-directed. But I would say my education is ongoing and perpetual."
Borrowed words, worn to familiarity in Ellis' mouth. (His mother, fingertips ink stained, tipping a book towards him, voice soft.) His left hand leaves the reins, fingers opening and closing, then shaking the cold and stiffness out.
"Have you ever seen sketches of the lost thaigs? I'd heard of one explorer who published some written account of his expedition, along with what he'd drawn."
Not as good as what Wardens had in their collections. But it's enough, he thinks, to offer up for this purpose.
"The sketches might be of interest to you, even if they aren't properly art."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pre-dream.
Between them, Leander is here to deal with the material. Ellis is here to be of assistance in the event Leander and the artwork is attacked on the road. Or perhaps to do the heavy lifting. He certainly isn't here because of any expertise, other than a few quiet expressions of admiration during the loading of the cart.
"Is the work any good?" Ellis asks, as they jolt along the road. It's bitingly cold, though Ellis seems largely unbothered by it apart from the red of his cheeks and fingers where they hold the reins.
no subject
An ostensible chance to use his expertise (such as it is, dearth of formal training aside), a long trip along the road, the risk of trouble, uncommon company in relative solitude: all these ingredients ought to please him. And they do. But there is something else, some rivulet of disquiet, icy liquid carving a path through his entrails, lingering. Always lingering, of late.
(Is this what it means to doubt? How can anyone stand it?)
"That we've been hired as custodians speaks to its value, one way or another." An ambiguous answer, peaceably spoken, shortly followed by a glance back to the canvas-covered carriage behind them. "As to my own preference, I couldn't say. It merits a longer look."
no subject
Judiciously passing over that Ellis will likely do most of the unpacking.
He has such sparse knowledge of Leander. Wysteria admires him. He has visited the Hightown house. He has always been polite. He is a mage. He apparently knows something of art.
Ellis is unsure of how to speak to him.
"What is your preference?"
A bold question for someone whose tastes in art is based wholly in gut instinct.
no subject
Its exact meaning may still be difficult to discern, but that's hardly his problem.
"I've only recently begun to explore that. There's little emphasis on expressive culture in the Circle, you see. Maker forbid we develop any strong interest in the wider world." He's watching a tree as he says this. "But I've always been fond of exploration, or... a sense of mystery. An image that leaves you wondering."
Lest this get too deep too quickly, "Of course, sometimes it's nice just to see a lovely picture of an apple, or something. In the right hands, under the right eye, anything can become beautiful."
no subject
What little Ellis knows of Circles comes to him secondhand, in glancing asides traded around campfires or on long, winding journeys not unlike this present expedition. Set against those minor recollections, what Leander mentions fits in alongside the impression Ellis had already formed.
"I've never known anyone who spoke of art that way," Ellis tells him, eyes returning to the road. This is likely unsurprising to hear from a Fereldan Warden, regardless of Ellis' particular background. "But it seems to me that you'd find the apple easier than you'd find anything else."
A beat, then, tacked on almost as if to underscore his obvious shortcomings: "Not that I've seen enough art for you to trust my judgement."
no subject
They go bumping over a few small runoff grooves, where some recent rain made its own paths across the road. Leander waits for it to come and go, grasping the side of the cart as they're jostled, so his voice won't sound like it's being run across a washboard.
"Whether or not you're able to express it as some critic might expect, or compare it to this or that work or in whatever context, or what-else, your opinion is what it is, and it's perfectly valid."
no subject
"I won't hold you to that," he promises. "Should you decide to take it back on the occasion I do volunteer an opinion."
Some theoretical occasion that Ellis doesn't expect to materialize beyond this outing. There's better company in Riftwatch. He's aware of that.
"You've taught yourself?" Ellis continues, eyes shifting away from Leander back to the road, the reins in his hands. "About art?"
no subject
He tilts his head for the question, this way and then that. "Mmmm, yes and no. I did have a mentor for a time—a year or so. The rest I suppose you'd call self-directed. But I would say my education is ongoing and perpetual."
no subject
Borrowed words, worn to familiarity in Ellis' mouth. (His mother, fingertips ink stained, tipping a book towards him, voice soft.) His left hand leaves the reins, fingers opening and closing, then shaking the cold and stiffness out.
"Have you ever seen sketches of the lost thaigs? I'd heard of one explorer who published some written account of his expedition, along with what he'd drawn."
Not as good as what Wardens had in their collections. But it's enough, he thinks, to offer up for this purpose.
"The sketches might be of interest to you, even if they aren't properly art."