[ Something strange happens, when Csevet answers him. The words themselves are as decorous as always - proper form, proper diction, proper level of formality. But the tone of his voice itself is... gentle. Warm. That more than the answer itself seems to work on Maia, and suddenly he feels something almost like nervousness, except a happy, shimmering sort. His smile widens and he touches a hand to his hair, as if to check that all the braids are still wound in place and none have fallen. It's a small unconscious gesture of flattered pleasure.

So Maia lets his hand go and takes the cup of chamomile tea, holding it between both hands, glad for something to occupy them. Maia feels light, and his voice is cheerful as he declares: ]

As I wish for yours.

[ There is no way that Csevet will miss the change in formality - this time, it is intentional. Maia takes a sip of the tea, finds it too hot still, and sets it down. His grey eyes are bright as he says, a little amusement creeping into his voice: ]

Well, then, as your friend, I would ask- and it is a request, not an order- that you call me 'Maia'. After all, I am not the emperor, here. The people in this place do not use titles, and we- [ The plural, that time, assuming he can speak for himself and for Csevet ] -want to fit in somewhat, do we not?

[ Maia, it is clear, has taken some steps in pursuit of fitting in. He is no longer, for instance, wearing clothes of the sort he arrived in. He is still dressed decorously, in well-fitted black pants and a long-sleeved shirt with a line of buttons down the front. But he isn't wearing any jewelry, and his hair is done up in a simple bun of three braids twisted together. The effect is asymmetrical enough that it is clear he did it up himself. ]

But tell me, what has happened since you arrived? Have you been given a job? Quarters? Is there aught that you need?