driftfleet | [Open Moons Mingle Log]

Such things never quite turn out the way we intend them to, hm? But that's part of the beauty.

Do you often work in copper?

Yes - it was the easiest to get, at home, though steel was the most in demand.

Truly! And here I thought most artists preferred paper.

Oh, no, I'm not an artist. Just a smith.

Can't one be both?

[He's just gonna sit next to you bro don't mind him.]

I should think such beauty doesn't simply come out of nowhere, after all.

[ When Malak hears the word 'beauty', it's most often a woman who wants to take him to her bed and then discard him afterward. It's usually a compliment with strings attached. It usually demands a response. And Malak hates that. So it almost triggers an automatic response in him, a closing off - but he stops himself, visibly, as he realizes that no, Garak was complimenting the embossing, not complimenting Malak.

And that gives him an unaccustomed warmth.

All that Malak feels is visible on his face. He's guileless but wary; there is nothing but truth in him, but that truth is that he expects danger from all around him, and doesn't know how to defend himself from it. ]

Thank you.

[ For the compliment. And he truly means that. ]

It doesn't come from nowhere. [ He sighs. ] It was anger.

[What an interesting set of reactions. Garak notes each one carefully, storing it away for later analysis. Perhaps he'll use that word again later on, just to see what it does-- or was it being called an artist that triggered such a visible flinch? Ah, so many experiments to run, so little time.]

A powerful force. Might I ask what you're angry about?

You can ask.

[ Which is a silly, teenage, still-a-boy thing to say, and it's not worthy of Malak. He just doesn't know if he wants to respond. ]

But I'm not sure the answer is very interesting.

Consider me asking, then.

[He says it patiently, sympathetically.]

Where you come from, are women warriors?

[He raises a ridge.]

At times, yes.

Where I come from, they're all the warriors. All the leaders.

I don't even - own anything. In the records at the Hall, all I earn is under the names of my daughters.

[ His hand is clenched into a fist. He's not even sure why he's saying this; he hasn't said it to many people here. Trying to articulate a helpless feeling that he's had his whole life, but the helplessness is the only thing that's familiar.

This tree, it's not him, it doesn't represent him. It's the ugliness that grows out of him that he can't control. ]

[Dear, dear. Garak tips his head, studying the young man, wondering why he was chosen to hear this. Quite possibly because it was boiling up in him, and Garak was the nearest receptacle.

Well. He's no counselor, but never let it be said he didn't listen.]

Then it sounds as if your kidnapping was done at a fortunate time, to bring you away from such a thing.

I love my daughters.

[ He wants to go back, despite everything. It's his home.

He looks up to Garak. ]

I'm sorry. None of this is important to you.

[He offers a slight smile.]

That doesn't mean I mind listening-- though I can't promise any advice I give will be particularly helpful.

I just feel foreign here. I don't belong. I want to go home, but I don't know if I belong there either. Not unless things start to change, and they won't.

[ He doesn't have the kind of personal power that would make that happen.

His fingers trace over the embossing, feeling for little flaws. ]

My name is Malak.

Elim Garak.

[His first name tastes foreign on his mouth, sweet and a little odd, and he's surprised to hear himself say it.]

How long have you been here?

A week.

Just a week.

Ah, well. The first week is always roughest.

[A beat, and then, with a little smile:]

Now, before all this, I happened to find myself in another rather unpleasant situation. I can only imagine why I'm such a popular target for kidnapping; perhaps people simply want their own personal tailor for no money at all.

Regardless: I often found talking to my fellow captives to be the best remedy. It hardly mattered about what, so long as we talked. It helped to remind ourselves that things were hardly as hopeless as all that.

[ Malak is listening. The rare kind of listening, where his focus is on what is being said, and not what he wants to say in reply.

So he's left groping for words after. ]

That sounds - true. [ He means it sounds like a real truth, it sounds like something he should do. ]

...though I hope I don't get kidnapped again. [ b l e h ]

Oh, I have a feeling this one might stick. We're entertainment, after all. We can't simply disappear on a dime.

We can if we're not interesting.

My dear, please. We're only as uninteresting as we feel, hm?

[ At these words, Malak has a flash of insight. Dubious insight, but it makes sense; he wonders, suddenly, if for Garak performance isn't submission to an outside purpose but another way to gather power. Have the audience in his thrall.

He sits up a little, chewing this over, brows knit. ]

[In return, he tips his head, one ridge raising slightly.]

Are you all right?

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