"Organization is key," Emet-Selch insists, as if it's law.
"Though not so stringent that there is no room at all left for spontaneity. You will be waiting a long time if you are expecting me to be the one to host it, however. But while I don't see myself going through the trouble required of such a thing, if someone were to twist my arm about it, I suppose I could extend a courtesy invitation."
It would only be fair. One good turn deserving another and all that. But as Byleth explains these habits first formed with his father, Emet-Selch finds himself listening again. To share a plate with a new acquaintance still strikes him as strange, but perhaps he grew up with little. Or perhaps his childhood was one spent regularly on the move. Certainly nothing like what Emet-Selch is used to. Nothing like the laughably opulent dining hall that once existed in Garlemald's imperial palace, and as for his own father... Long ago as it was, he can scarcely remember the man.
Emet-Selch is quick to stop him, his voice rising sternly as Byleth makes to rise yet again.
"It won't. Sit down, Professor. You needn't keep jumping up and flitting off every few moments to fetch me things."
Though it's a considerate gesture, he supposes. If mostly unnecessary. Although he's still smiling somewhat, there's a firm set about his brow as he shakes his head and points the edge of the plate at him accusingly.
"You're just like him, aren't you? Never doing anything by halves. Why don't you sit still and tell me a bit about your father? Then we'll see about having a discussion on creation magicks."
no subject
"Though not so stringent that there is no room at all left for spontaneity. You will be waiting a long time if you are expecting me to be the one to host it, however. But while I don't see myself going through the trouble required of such a thing, if someone were to twist my arm about it, I suppose I could extend a courtesy invitation."
It would only be fair. One good turn deserving another and all that. But as Byleth explains these habits first formed with his father, Emet-Selch finds himself listening again. To share a plate with a new acquaintance still strikes him as strange, but perhaps he grew up with little. Or perhaps his childhood was one spent regularly on the move. Certainly nothing like what Emet-Selch is used to. Nothing like the laughably opulent dining hall that once existed in Garlemald's imperial palace, and as for his own father... Long ago as it was, he can scarcely remember the man.
Emet-Selch is quick to stop him, his voice rising sternly as Byleth makes to rise yet again.
"It won't. Sit down, Professor. You needn't keep jumping up and flitting off every few moments to fetch me things."
Though it's a considerate gesture, he supposes. If mostly unnecessary. Although he's still smiling somewhat, there's a firm set about his brow as he shakes his head and points the edge of the plate at him accusingly.
"You're just like him, aren't you? Never doing anything by halves. Why don't you sit still and tell me a bit about your father? Then we'll see about having a discussion on creation magicks."