[Kratos doesn't specify whether he knows Yuan means it, or he knows he's changed. He has. He pauses in his reading to take a sip of water, but despite Yuan's attempt to breathe there still seems to be an edge of bitterness in his last words.
[Kratos puts down the glass and reaches for the cleaned shirt folded on the bureau, put there by one of the staff. Someone had sewn up the cut; Kratos hadn't expected that. In Tethe'alla, the shirt would have been tossed, but in Sylvarant there were fewer resources. Maybe the Renegades here had learned that. Maybe Yuan had just asked them to keep it for him so Kratos doesn't have to keep borrowing his shirts. Either way, Kratos shakes it out to run his thumb across the neat, machine stitching. Even in Sylvarant, the Renegades used machines.]
I made this shirt. When I say that, I mean that I spun the yarn and wove the cloth, and sewed the shirt.
[By hand.]
It's not how it's usually done. There's a group in the village who spin most of the yarn, and another group who stitch the clothes, and a few of us who do the weaving. But sometimes we have to fill in for each other. Sometimes I just wanted to.
I wasn't very good at it, at first. When I first arrived in the village, all I'd ever done was fight. Even with Anna, I worked as a mercenary. For the first time in four thousand years, I learned a new skill, because I had to adapt -- I needed to work, to support Lloyd. As I got older, I needed to adapt more. Glasses to see the yarn. A new type of loom to account for my hands stiffening in the winter.
[Kratos lifts his head to look toward Yuan, but he's not precisely looking at him, and although his voice is low and thoughtful, it's still raspy.]
How long has it been since we changed, Yuan? How long since the world has, in truth? Ageing means changing. It ensures you adapt. It keeps you nimble in your thinking, because your body could fail at any time. How long has it been since any of us could think in any way other than through strength of arms? How long since we've been able to see the individual cogs in the machine?
[He folds the shirt again, carefully, to put it back on the bureau. Sometime he'll ask for some scissors to cut away that stitching, so he could resew it himself for no other reason than he could. Later, though. His throat is hurting again; a lecture is far too much talking to be wise, in this state. Kratos cradles the glass of water in his hands, and manages not to cough.]
no subject
[Kratos doesn't specify whether he knows Yuan means it, or he knows he's changed. He has. He pauses in his reading to take a sip of water, but despite Yuan's attempt to breathe there still seems to be an edge of bitterness in his last words.
[Kratos puts down the glass and reaches for the cleaned shirt folded on the bureau, put there by one of the staff. Someone had sewn up the cut; Kratos hadn't expected that. In Tethe'alla, the shirt would have been tossed, but in Sylvarant there were fewer resources. Maybe the Renegades here had learned that. Maybe Yuan had just asked them to keep it for him so Kratos doesn't have to keep borrowing his shirts. Either way, Kratos shakes it out to run his thumb across the neat, machine stitching. Even in Sylvarant, the Renegades used machines.]
I made this shirt. When I say that, I mean that I spun the yarn and wove the cloth, and sewed the shirt.
[By hand.]
It's not how it's usually done. There's a group in the village who spin most of the yarn, and another group who stitch the clothes, and a few of us who do the weaving. But sometimes we have to fill in for each other. Sometimes I just wanted to.
I wasn't very good at it, at first. When I first arrived in the village, all I'd ever done was fight. Even with Anna, I worked as a mercenary. For the first time in four thousand years, I learned a new skill, because I had to adapt -- I needed to work, to support Lloyd. As I got older, I needed to adapt more. Glasses to see the yarn. A new type of loom to account for my hands stiffening in the winter.
[Kratos lifts his head to look toward Yuan, but he's not precisely looking at him, and although his voice is low and thoughtful, it's still raspy.]
How long has it been since we changed, Yuan? How long since the world has, in truth? Ageing means changing. It ensures you adapt. It keeps you nimble in your thinking, because your body could fail at any time. How long has it been since any of us could think in any way other than through strength of arms? How long since we've been able to see the individual cogs in the machine?
[He folds the shirt again, carefully, to put it back on the bureau. Sometime he'll ask for some scissors to cut away that stitching, so he could resew it himself for no other reason than he could. Later, though. His throat is hurting again; a lecture is far too much talking to be wise, in this state. Kratos cradles the glass of water in his hands, and manages not to cough.]