Fishing expedition

Demetrius’s grin grew wider as Kaczor finished, the glass in his hand swirling lazily as if in tempo with the torrent of her words. When she finally stopped, he let the silence hang, as though savoring it, letting it settle over the mismatched table like a shroud. Then, he leaned forward again, elbows on the table, his chin resting on his interlaced fingers.

Forgive you? he echoed, his tone a rich blend of amusement and incredulity. Oh, my dear Kaczor, I wouldn’t dream of it. Forgive you for what? For passion? For vision? For daring to imagine a world less... deplorably fractured? No, no, no. If anything, I should thank you. Few possess the audacity to think, let alone speak, as you just did.

His voice softened, his expression shifting into something almost contemplative, though the glint of mischief never fully left his eyes.

Ah, what a conundrum you present. A Tilani with fire enough to burn down the house, but with just enough wit to rebuild it into something splendid. A revolutionary’s heart, wrapped in a noble’s poise. Delightful. Utterly delightful.

He gestured vaguely at the table, the wine, the cats, and the peculiar setting that seemed both absurd and strangely fitting.

And yet, as grand as your vision is, it’s a dangerous thing to carry such fire. You must know that, of course. Fire warms, yes, but it also burns. Sometimes it consumes. And sometimes... it inspires.

Demetrius stood, his movements fluid and almost theatrical, as he began to pace slowly around the table, his gaze never leaving her.

Do you know what I see in you, Kaczor? Potential. Raw, untempered, thrilling potential. A mind that could bend steel and a heart that could rally armies. But— he paused dramatically, spinning on his heel to face her, —potential is nothing without a direction. Without purpose. Without someone to ensure that it doesn’t spill out and flood the very lands you wish to save.

He stopped pacing and leaned against the back of his chair, crossing his arms, his gaze piercing.

I’m offering you a hand, Kaczor. Not a leash, not a chain—no, those are for people who lack vision. I’m offering you a partnership. A chance to take that fire of yours and forge it into something extraordinary. You’ve seen the cracks; now help me fill them. Rip out the rot, if you must. Dance in the ashes, if it comes to that. But build something. Build something that will last.

He raised his goblet again, his smile genuine this time, though no less dangerous in its intensity.

So tell me, Kaczor Tilani. Will you take my hand? Will you stand with me, not as a supplicant, but as a builder of this mad, beautiful, broken world? Or will you let that fire of yours consume you, burn out, and leave nothing behind but smoke and regrets?

He tilted his head, watching her with an expression that was both expectant and patient, as though he already knew her answer but was determined to let her speak it aloud.

@Kaczor Tilani