[ Bore is not the word Kostos would use. Nikos, he would speculate, would appreciate the opportunity to share his thoughts on the matter, but they wouldn’t be thoughts Marisol would enjoy. And Kostos—well. When he was eight, he wanted to be Comte, to the extent being Comte meant using his half-hour of seniority to threaten Nikos with banishment from the estate, someday in the nebulous future, whenever their childhood wrestling devolved into biting and indefinite sitting-on.
It was a long time ago, it’s something he stopped thinking about when he was nine, it’s not something he would go back to now if he could, but nonetheless: way to rub it in. ]
Anders has organized meetings for mages to [ as though it’s something ever so slightly distasteful ] support one another. Perhaps the nobility should do something similar. Dinner parties. Dances.
[ You know, like they already do. But in case Marisol doesn’t know—and because he’s kind of a jerk—Kostos pauses and adds, all deadpan realization: ]
no subject
It was a long time ago, it’s something he stopped thinking about when he was nine, it’s not something he would go back to now if he could, but nonetheless: way to rub it in. ]
Anders has organized meetings for mages to [ as though it’s something ever so slightly distasteful ] support one another. Perhaps the nobility should do something similar. Dinner parties. Dances.
[ You know, like they already do. But in case Marisol doesn’t know—and because he’s kind of a jerk—Kostos pauses and adds, all deadpan realization: ]
Wait.