[ the hotly argued debate alhaitham is dragged into is every bit as frivolous as he thought it'd be, a bunch of scholars with their own biased points of view wanting validation from someone 'higher up' in the akademiya. it only takes the scribe a few minutes to listen to the bickering about phonemic meanings on some worthless khaenri'an inscriptions to bring himself up to speed enough to let both sides of the argument know they were as ridiculous as one another. a robust academic debate was one thing; arguing for the sake of satisfying an ego was another, and while under a different, quieter circumstance this conversation could potentially be rather interesting? his mind is elsewhere.
no-one questions him abruptly leaving the group after satisfying the exact criteria his presence was requested for - after all, alhaitham wasn't known for his bedside manner, and the curt way he socialises is something the akademiya in a wider sense has simply gotten used to.
he doesn't expect, however, to find kaveh cornered not five meters from where he left him before he'd been dragged off. cornered, because the man talking to the blonde is too far in his personal space to be polite - even alhaitham recognises that - and there's something so familiar about that stature, that hair...
striding back over, the scribe catches the tail-end of one of the stranger's comments; "You know, we could always continue where we left off... as long as that thug isn't around, that is. You seemed so enthusiastic when we met." - and alhaitham stops a good few feet behind the man, body tensing like a cat raising its hackles at an enemy presence.
his eidetic memory isn't even required to place the voice and figure despite not being able to see his face, because the scribe categorically remembers everything - and his mind quickly flashes back to one of the images that still bothers him the most, still worms its way underneath his skin and eats away at him in quiet moments when his books were closed and kaveh wasn't around.
bare hands instinctively curl into fists, nails biting into the meat of his palms as stoicism and fury vy for control over each other, the rest of the party falling away to nothing as the scribe struggles to decide what to do next. he hates, hates that one insignificant piece of shit can rattle him so, but it's clear which side of the coin wins as the taller man closes scant few steps left between them and grabs kaveh's fling by the shoulder. ]
A thug, am I? [ he seethes, though his face remains even despite the cold fury rolling off him. somehow, that makes it all the more terrifying. ] And just what do you think you're doing here?
no subject
no-one questions him abruptly leaving the group after satisfying the exact criteria his presence was requested for - after all, alhaitham wasn't known for his bedside manner, and the curt way he socialises is something the akademiya in a wider sense has simply gotten used to.
he doesn't expect, however, to find kaveh cornered not five meters from where he left him before he'd been dragged off. cornered, because the man talking to the blonde is too far in his personal space to be polite - even alhaitham recognises that - and there's something so familiar about that stature, that hair...
striding back over, the scribe catches the tail-end of one of the stranger's comments; "You know, we could always continue where we left off... as long as that thug isn't around, that is. You seemed so enthusiastic when we met." - and alhaitham stops a good few feet behind the man, body tensing like a cat raising its hackles at an enemy presence.
his eidetic memory isn't even required to place the voice and figure despite not being able to see his face, because the scribe categorically remembers everything - and his mind quickly flashes back to one of the images that still bothers him the most, still worms its way underneath his skin and eats away at him in quiet moments when his books were closed and kaveh wasn't around.
bare hands instinctively curl into fists, nails biting into the meat of his palms as stoicism and fury vy for control over each other, the rest of the party falling away to nothing as the scribe struggles to decide what to do next. he hates, hates that one insignificant piece of shit can rattle him so, but it's clear which side of the coin wins as the taller man closes scant few steps left between them and grabs kaveh's fling by the shoulder. ]
A thug, am I? [ he seethes, though his face remains even despite the cold fury rolling off him. somehow, that makes it all the more terrifying. ] And just what do you think you're doing here?