lioneshyde:
Shade? Hrm. That was a difficult question to answer, his eyes not being what they once were and not caring enough to know the different varieties of blue. He at the very least is more interested by attempting to puzzle out an accurate description than the running of one’s lands. Noble business. Didn’t care much for it at all. Took the time of brilliant minds from useful research to dreary mundane tasks.
“Hrm, that so. Now, you might have to ask Miss Sinoa or Miss Cleo for a more common descriptor if you wish, but if I recall correctly the shade was somewhere in the range of 440 to 450 nanometers on the spectrum.” He’s sure he has a more accurate rating somewhere in his notes, but alas, he hasn’t that particular journal on his being. Pretty sure he made a copy–wouldn’t do at all to be without one, and have to impose on a young lady at whatever odd hours he took just for a few notes. Not that he was the one mindful of such impropriety.
“Oh, yes, some of the faithful do certainly know how to put a crock in one’s hamper, hm.” Yes, even he wasn’t mad enough to chance a walk by the chapel when sister Estelle or Hildegarde were present. Not twice. Still, some were fine enough. The young Hope was quite a delight to watch and engage with. But the gloom and gruff of his acknowledgement is soon erased with stipulation. “But we’ve many a fine healer not bound to faith, yes! Such as the fine butler, though he lectures, and that wonderful dancer, and that lad who breaks everything–not allowed in my lab though, no, not that one–and–what where we speaking of?”
“I can’t say I’m familiar with that measurement of color, no. I’ll ask later.” Fascinating, truly. Was his mask equipped with instruments for the detection of different frequency of light to compensate for his rotted eyes? He would have to bother him for the schematics at some point.
The sudden offtrack made him chuckle some, an unmistakable upturn to his lips. As maddening as they all were, he truly missed the Halidom. “Healers, Kleimann, we were talking of healers- though not a conversation of any real importance. Perhaps you aught to ask one of the smithing sisters to screw your head on a little tighter, lest your thoughts rattle out again.” Though he wasn’t one to talk. How often did he jump between ideas in casual conversation with Curran? Enough to be teased over it.
“Have you eaten recently-” He paused for a beat. “Or, rather, I suppose the better question is are you in need of an extra pair of hands any time soon? I’d love to hear whatever else you’ve been invested in these last few months, and I know the length of an afternoon tea won’t quite cover it.”