Oh. Perhaps the man has a sense of humor after all? Or perhaps even someone like Byleth can't hold up against the power of his permanent stuck-on grin forever. He only wishes such revelations didn't have to come at his own expense...
His smile twitches again, but sure enough, just as before, no matter how irritated Emet-Selch may feel, his mouth simply refuses to follow suit and reflect the displeasure that is making itself more and more pronounced within the creases of his brow. It's not exactly painful, but the muscles in his face are starting to ache considerably.
"As a garnish, perhaps..." he cedes. "Or chopped up into a stew. Surely not entirely raw." To each their own, but Emet-Selch has no desire to munch on one as one would a carrot or a celery stick. Though, all onions aside, the man's insistence is a bit surprising. He hopes his aim isn't to bombard him with questions again--
But before he can protest, Byleth is moving decisively towards the the refreshment stalls and Emet-Selch is left alone with the onion. Seeing as he so hates to let things go to waste, he eventually pockets the vegetable and makes himself utterly useless as the fae folk's newest lawn ornament - taking a seat on a mossy stone outcropping, with his face angled away from the crowd.
When Byleth returns he will find Emet-Selch looking much the same as he had before - frozen expression and all. Emet-Selch inclines his head to indicate the excessively generous plate of food.
"Impressive appetite. That, or you clearly must anticipate that we will be sitting here for a long while." He hopes not. Not because he particularly dislikes the company, but because he's already had quite enough of the fae's punishments. He will accept a cup of the fruit nectar, however. But not before giving it a good, hard look.
"So what's next for you now that you have won a presumably endless supply of onions?" he inquires. It isn't easy, given the way his mouth is fixed, but he does manage to take a careful sip without dribbling the contents everywhere.
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His smile twitches again, but sure enough, just as before, no matter how irritated Emet-Selch may feel, his mouth simply refuses to follow suit and reflect the displeasure that is making itself more and more pronounced within the creases of his brow. It's not exactly painful, but the muscles in his face are starting to ache considerably.
"As a garnish, perhaps..." he cedes. "Or chopped up into a stew. Surely not entirely raw." To each their own, but Emet-Selch has no desire to munch on one as one would a carrot or a celery stick. Though, all onions aside, the man's insistence is a bit surprising. He hopes his aim isn't to bombard him with questions again--
But before he can protest, Byleth is moving decisively towards the the refreshment stalls and Emet-Selch is left alone with the onion. Seeing as he so hates to let things go to waste, he eventually pockets the vegetable and makes himself utterly useless as the fae folk's newest lawn ornament - taking a seat on a mossy stone outcropping, with his face angled away from the crowd.
When Byleth returns he will find Emet-Selch looking much the same as he had before - frozen expression and all. Emet-Selch inclines his head to indicate the excessively generous plate of food.
"Impressive appetite. That, or you clearly must anticipate that we will be sitting here for a long while." He hopes not. Not because he particularly dislikes the company, but because he's already had quite enough of the fae's punishments. He will accept a cup of the fruit nectar, however. But not before giving it a good, hard look.
"So what's next for you now that you have won a presumably endless supply of onions?" he inquires. It isn't easy, given the way his mouth is fixed, but he does manage to take a careful sip without dribbling the contents everywhere.