[Open] Keeper, not reaper.

Words, damn words, never quite the way they sounded in his head before they passed his wretched tongue and were spat out. Words that fit together like they where meant to, ripped apart and dribbled out piecemeal in a crooked stream of sounds he somehow didn't know but recognized as his. Intentions and emotions forcefully sifted through some unconscious sieve placed there by whom? Although there was still little specks of Midgård that managed to make it through and even more so in the way he twisted and mangled the words that did came out.

A bear chewing nails compared to the soft silk bard flowed, yet he didn't let that dissuade him from trying to provide provide a satisfying answer. Maybe more for himself than for Jigano. "Last we spoke I was a fool up to his head in what he was too stubborn to understand. Now I understand, as much as I can ever hope to do, and I'm drowning again." Are said, frustration with it all slowly creeping into his voice, but never allowed to fully blossom. Only to say just enough that he knew to shut up.

A moment of silence, then a deep sigh of a man who liked to think he was past making any stupid mistakes unknowingly. "A drowning man thrashes and claws to keep above water. I am slowly learning not to." he said with a voice weaker than before. Leaning on his table both for support and to close the distance a touch. Just enough to keep any eavesdroppers out of the conversation. "I appreciate your words, your guidance, and it's kept in mind, but a pupil does not refuse the master, and a drowning man does not refuse the ocean. Especially not when it speaks to him." Are said and shook his head, eyes wild with a mix of fear and regret. The eyes of a drowning man threw himself overboard willingly, thinking he could swim.

Jigano nodded slow agreement to Are's words that he hadn't understood what he had gotten himself into when it came to the Spire. New, barely arrived, and already meddling in local politics, willing to start a war with the native people because another Outlander decided she knew better, was more worthy, to decide the fates of the people whose land she had come to uninvited. That she knew better than their gods and that her promise to a dying friend was more selfishly important than all the world beyond, that it was worth reigniting a war that had brought gods to their knees without waiting to learn why or trying to convince the Naturals of her point of view. Might made right... and Are had followed that might enthusiastically, eager to inflict upon others what had been inflicted on him in another world.

Or... was it truly that grim? "And what is it that you understand now, that you didn't before?" Jigano asked quietly. "And why do you think that you will never understand more? Life is about learning, son of Jorm. Every day, every season, every year, you learn more than you did before. Have you truly made up your mind so rigidly that you will never again open it to new information? New lessons?" That way lay death, to the lorekeeper's mind. Perhaps not death of the body, but a death of the mind, and a death of the soul. To stagnate, to rot - or, perhaps worse, to become unchanging as metal, as a machine, and thereby to lose all humanity more completely then the mere death of the body.

The Brow arched again at hearing that Are was 'learning' to not try and stay above water. The bard assumed there was some lack of translation between their cultures that made the saying mean something different to the cobbler. To Jigano it sounded as though Are were surrendering attempts to survive and move forward, choosing instead to yield, to sink into darkness - or, perhaps, choosing willful oblivion, giving up control of his destiny and handing it to another...

Who would then shape and mold the gentle cobbler to their purpose, and none of Are's own.

"And who is this ocean who calls to you?" he asked instead, trying to tease apart if the man was speaking metaphorically or more literally.

For a moment Are found himself asking why the bard cared. Going beyond the simple assumption that there was some unknown and unknowable force driving him to keep poking and prodding at what few secrets Are kept, finding maybe a few truths about himself he wasn't fully comfortable with. Maybe that was his angle, maybe asking questions Are could ask himself was what he meant to do. Although the motive still remained shrouded in mystery, but in that moment he was past caring, so just shrugging internally he left it a problem for future Are.

"I can see that there is more than I could ever know, but where I before would just let it all be, I've found that I no longer can." he said, answering more his own questions than Jigano's. Maybe he had arrived at the core of why he wanted to fight, love, and hate. A driving force awoken by reality shifting, a glacier set in motion and sent sliding unrelenting towards the shores of what used to be a simple life.

He wanted to just blurt it all out, to properly spill the beans and be done with it. Keeping secrets and only letting half truths through was a chore claiming the most of the cobbler there in the sweltering heat, but the warrior knew there was no options. "I have already said too much, but I have my orders, and as a warrior in training I do well with following them. Learning when to question things and when to save your strength to fight another day is something I've been learning. Safe to say though, there will come a time we're on the opposite ends of a table again, and I fear that day, because you're proving a shitty villain." Are said and offered a little, crooked smile.

Are's answer was a surprisingly good one, and Jigano nodded thoughtfully, approving of it with a tilt of his head and an easing of his smile. What he hadn't expected, though, was the tumult of words that answered his next question, in a tide of confusion that had the smile fading as blue eyes narrowed at the anxious cobbler.

"Your 'orders?'" he said softly, disappointment slipping back into its well-worn place with the cobbler - no, the warrior, apparently. Or rather, the soldier. One who followed blindly and refused to take responsibility for his own actions, instead hiding behind the excuse that he was 'just following orders.' Ah, how the Technic League would have snapped him up in a heartbeat to serve as their henchman... "I had not realized you were preparing for war against me. At our last meeting you said that you wanted to earn back my friendship... I am sorry to hear that you have changed your mind so completely since then." He stepped back, offering a half-bow and a smile that didn't reach his eyes, their cool blue gone wounded at this declaration. "If you already consider me your enemy simply for speaking truth then I won't task your conscience by asking you to use your craft on my behalf. Indeed, a Launceleyn loyalist would likely only earn himself a punishment for serving goods to a 'villain' such as myself," he said, a wry, sharp-edged pride in his smile. He was not even a little bit upset that one who would willingly take orders from a self-proclaimed tyrant considered him a villain... he was only disappointed that the cobbler's memory had proved so short, and his convictions so malleable.

Zariah or Roana... in the end, it was only a matter of scale.

"I am sorry for wasting your time, Are. Good day to you," he finished, every inch of him outwardly polite as he nodded and moved away from the stall, moving further into the bazaar to see what else might be purchased for a song or a favor.

"Good job, you absolute cretin." Are whispered to himself as he suffered another lashing on the back of his clumsy words. At least it kept his secret safe, a small victory, if a rather Pyhrric one. The inability of the bard to see anything but his own way as right had the cobbler, warrior, stubborn one, had begun to see as insurmountable as the task ahead of him.

Stubborn one... A little better each time, misunderstandings instead of proper differing opinions was a step forward. At least it seemed as if things had played out in Are's favor even if only by chance and he was for that moment content with letting the bard think him nothing but a talking head to whatever troll he had decided pulled Are's strings.

Not bothered by the cold wits and hot air blown his way before the bard swept off he sat back down and began the slow and laborious process of making the pockets that was supposed to go into the satchel. "Purple, or blue perhaps, that would suit him." the cobbler mused as he placed the first of many cuts.