Lt Tayrey reminds Anzu of no one so much as the youngest of the Nostalgines, the Red Guard irregulars during the long years of revolution—and thus he's charmed, and a little wistful. So much so that her elaboration on the standard handshake barely registers, when usually it'd be front and centre.
"If thou'rt comfortable with it, Lieutenant Tayrey, I think I'm quite all right with a little formality," he says. He does note to himself that she comes from a place with similar careful gradations of formality and the implication of formality. Well, that's a comfort. One less strange cultural gap to trip over, one less excuse to fall on his face.
"The Holy Tongue is used daily, but not for mundane matters," he says to her question about the nature and use of Hebrew. "Many know just the basics, plus a the roots what made it into the current vernaculars. Certainly, I can teach thee enough to understand the labels."
"As for my first language—" he pauses, and smiles in a sort of preening way, allowing himself a bit of vanity. "Well, nu. Much like thee, I speak several. My mother tongue and first language is the same—Yiddish, if we're not hair-splitting about dialects, and ah, sabesdiker-loshn if we are, in which case my first language is the literary standard. And I know several languages of the nations, though there, too, the line between dialect and language is not always so clear."
"And I'm called Anzu Menelikov, Lieutenant. Doctor Menelikov, if thou prefer'st formality, and Anzu Tamiratovitsh if thou find'st professional titles a touch too formal."
He has a hunch that insisting on familiar forms might just alienate the young lieutenant.
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Lt Tayrey reminds Anzu of no one so much as the youngest of the Nostalgines, the Red Guard irregulars during the long years of revolution—and thus he's charmed, and a little wistful. So much so that her elaboration on the standard handshake barely registers, when usually it'd be front and centre.
"If thou'rt comfortable with it, Lieutenant Tayrey, I think I'm quite all right with a little formality," he says. He does note to himself that she comes from a place with similar careful gradations of formality and the implication of formality. Well, that's a comfort. One less strange cultural gap to trip over, one less excuse to fall on his face.
"The Holy Tongue is used daily, but not for mundane matters," he says to her question about the nature and use of Hebrew. "Many know just the basics, plus a the roots what made it into the current vernaculars. Certainly, I can teach thee enough to understand the labels."
"As for my first language—" he pauses, and smiles in a sort of preening way, allowing himself a bit of vanity. "Well, nu. Much like thee, I speak several. My mother tongue and first language is the same—Yiddish, if we're not hair-splitting about dialects, and ah, sabesdiker-loshn if we are, in which case my first language is the literary standard. And I know several languages of the nations, though there, too, the line between dialect and language is not always so clear."
"And I'm called Anzu Menelikov, Lieutenant. Doctor Menelikov, if thou prefer'st formality, and Anzu Tamiratovitsh if thou find'st professional titles a touch too formal."
He has a hunch that insisting on familiar forms might just alienate the young lieutenant.