"Lieutenant, then," Anzu says; for just a moment, he looks awkward, at a loss, as he looks at Tayrey's hand—generally, when first introducing himself to women, someone first asks if the other party shakes hands or not, and the answer is almost always, only when not shaking hands would offend. But then, maybe the Lieutenant's name is red salted herring. His expression smooths out, and he shakes Tayrey's hand. His grip is slack, positively limp. His hand is hotter than a person's hand is wont to be. "Lieutenant Ari or Lieutenant Tayrey? I'm sorry to say I've not heard of the Tradelines, and thus cannot make any deductions on which one's thy surname." He grins; it's not precisely a joke, but it's clearly intended to break the ice.
Peace and prosperity ... it's not a formulation he's familiar with, but it's got that irritating quality he likes to think of as semantic rhyme. It could be something a Jew says, especially one from a particularly mercantile branch of the Diaspora. And the Lieutenant might be a namesake of his husband, too ... but then, he tells himself, he's just anxious to find more Jews here, and only because it's the first time in his entire life that he's somewhere where he knows there's unlikely to be a minyan. Even at the Tzarist Court, there'd been enough others like him and his twin.
He decides to go for the oblique way of fishing for information.
"As for the Holy Tongue ... thou hast an interest in language?" he asks; he cocks his head to one side, and looks at Tayrey with only barely disguised curiosity. "It'd be precious little use to thee here; it is not a vernacular and has not been for well over a millennium. So I must assume thou appreciatest language for the aesthetics and the challenge of learning."
no subject
"Lieutenant, then," Anzu says; for just a moment, he looks awkward, at a loss, as he looks at Tayrey's hand—generally, when first introducing himself to women, someone first asks if the other party shakes hands or not, and the answer is almost always, only when not shaking hands would offend. But then, maybe the Lieutenant's name is red salted herring. His expression smooths out, and he shakes Tayrey's hand. His grip is slack, positively limp. His hand is hotter than a person's hand is wont to be. "Lieutenant Ari or Lieutenant Tayrey? I'm sorry to say I've not heard of the Tradelines, and thus cannot make any deductions on which one's thy surname." He grins; it's not precisely a joke, but it's clearly intended to break the ice.
Peace and prosperity ... it's not a formulation he's familiar with, but it's got that irritating quality he likes to think of as semantic rhyme. It could be something a Jew says, especially one from a particularly mercantile branch of the Diaspora. And the Lieutenant might be a namesake of his husband, too ... but then, he tells himself, he's just anxious to find more Jews here, and only because it's the first time in his entire life that he's somewhere where he knows there's unlikely to be a minyan. Even at the Tzarist Court, there'd been enough others like him and his twin.
He decides to go for the oblique way of fishing for information.
"As for the Holy Tongue ... thou hast an interest in language?" he asks; he cocks his head to one side, and looks at Tayrey with only barely disguised curiosity. "It'd be precious little use to thee here; it is not a vernacular and has not been for well over a millennium. So I must assume thou appreciatest language for the aesthetics and the challenge of learning."