“Not squandered, I would say.” Krishna mused as he straightened up, lowering his hand to rest at his side. Her words indeed were like the beginning of a tale themselves. A proclamation of modesty that cushioned his ears with their softness. “To speak of a continuous tale without rest might only lead to forgetting details or wearing out your voice.”
The rise of her glass, her smile, the scroll she now held in one hand - all of it spoke of a special kind of authority. One that could only be claimed by someone wholly within their element. Krishna lowered his eyes once more and only took the necessary steps forward so that he might join her at the table. The seat was as comfortable as it looked, holding his weight as he arranged himself as would be appropriate of someone sharing the company of their better.
“You know of my story,” he smiles a little, “but you yourself remind me of a tale I knew from home. Of Ahalya, Brahma’s daughter. A member of the asparas and their court. If it would please you to hear it, I offer the story in exchange for the hospitality you have shown me. Would that be fair, or have I caused you offence?”
In terms of physical reading materials he was, unfortunately, quite poor. All the tales Krishna knew of were hoarded in the depths of his mind, occasionally picked through and remembered fondly. He did not think his host would appreciate an offer of gold or jewels. Those she had and still she appeared to focus on her scroll as though it were infinitely more valuable than the baubles around her. What better gift might be offered, than that of knowledge?
“We need not be grand all the time.” He told her softly, folding his hands in his lap. “It is dull, tedious work. Often thankless, besides.”
Ah. This name is familiar on her ears, even as one foreign to her in her lifetime; she recalls nothing of the story but the vague motions of its plot, however, and her interest is visibly piqued behind her glass.
"I... would have no objections." Rare is it for another to so quickly offer recompense for a gift not yet given by her: most, by experience, are either too enraptured by her tales or completely uninterested, and regardless of which are hardly concerned by any effort she expends to entertain them. Scheherazade cradles the drink in her lap and takes a moment to regard him once more.
"... thankless. Yes, I..." Look at her, finding some excuse to despair over nothing. "I would believe I understand. If you have stories to share, Krishna," a noteworthy pause, a noticeable effort to regard the man by his name and not title, "I would be not only glad but grateful to give you audience."
Perhaps gradually, perhaps suddenly, her rooms have shifted once more without the scrutiny of a stranger’s gaze. If Caster notices, she makes no comment in regards to this shift in atmosphere, instead briefly shifting her focus to the morsel she claims from those laid out before eyes flicker back to him. In the dark of the room, tinted now as if the sea itself hung above and colored all blue, there is little else that concerns her aside from this proposed story.
“... only if you wish.” So few have offered to indulge her in this way.
