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[archademode]

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[poleaxed]

That'll make life easier. Lot of folk in her position would be, just for a laugh...

[It's why she hadn't gone to d'Asgard in the first place, but saying that now seems... off. He did go out of his way for her, something she's still not sure how to hold in her mind. It's like when he fixed her armor, but that'd been different, his fault. This... it's a gift.]

[A strange one, but she's fond of his strangeness.]

[So, for once, she holds her tongue.]

What information was she needing?

[archademode]

[If only he knew what she’d been thinking at the time, that clever Alexandrie.]

To know what plans had been made already, and to add to that the matter of your own availability.

As I’d done my work beyond the scope of your own efforts, thus had I no true insight to impart.

[It was, admittedly, a misstep. But he is a man given to making those long, long before now, and there’s no shame to be felt in the aftermath for all his callouses.]

[poleaxed]

[So how does she give back her gift? Not return it, but double it? It feels like the only worthy thing to do, and Jone wants, at that moment, very much to be worthy.]

Better start making plans, then. Have to have a joust and a melee. Maybe a quintain and a pas d'armes... What d'you reckon?

[archademode]

You ask as though I would know better. [There's a recoil in it, his response, as though through the crystal itself she might somehow be shoving at him in her usual, unyielding manner.

Even so, he's writing it down all the same: unfamiliar (and likely misspelled for that fact alone) terms etched down into the margins of Flint's book, just beneath the lines already marked from his exchange with Alexandrie.]

I place faith in your determinations, and would back them in discussion with the Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard. I can offer you no more.

[poleaxed]

Oh, c'mon, Gab. You're a part of it, now. Did that all on your own; can't blame me.

[archademode]

[Dare him, Jone. He can and he— won't in fact, blame you.

Not this time, at least, when he walked figuratively into this conversation knowing full well the sort of trouble he'd be resting soundly in her lap. That fire dies off, snarling instinct settled in a single beat.]

I will look into it, then.

[Another task added to an endless list.]

Will you train with him again as you did, Lord Artemaeus?

[poleaxed]

Think you'd be grand at the Arms Pass.

[Just saying.]

Yeah. Not all the time, or he won't learn shite. But sometimes.

And don't worry, luv, I won't waste my time trying to get you to play.

[archademode]

Arms Pass. [He repeats, the sounds catching thoughtfully against his tongue.

Something to be considered later.]

I would sit in next time. To watch his progress.

[If the man makes an effort in sporting, it might make for an easy segue into demanding more frequent practice: something he might see to on his own, rather than whittling away hours shut inside a room filled with the smell of spent smoke and charcoal.]

[poleaxed]

[Interpreting that as a dismissal, she holds her tongue from further elaboration. As much as she'd like to talk endlessly of the sport-- and with other people, would do so heedless of their inclination-- she doesn't want to test Gabranth's patience. She knows it's pretty fucking flimsy, and he's already done a lot-- too much-- for her.]

Ta, charmed, I am.

Think I'll be setting it up once or twice a week. I'll let you know. He's good at it, really; that surprised me.

[archademode]

It would be good for you as well.

[poleaxed]

Gonna judge me footwork? Self taught, I am.

[archademode]

Your footwork is sufficient. [Sufficient, he says, not wondrous.]

I mean only that I prefer to see you taking comfort in lighter companionship, rather than bloodied trial alone.

1/3.

[poleaxed]

[poleaxed]

[poleaxed]

This is why we have to get you on the Arm's Pass. You might enjoy it.

[She doubts it, but she doubts either of them would benefit from her comparing pot and kettle outright.]

I have mates, Gab. I only don't invite you drinking 'cos I reckon you'd rather hang yourself.

[archademode]

[The fact that she isn’t wrong— predictably— somehow manages to make him all the more petulant.]

Drinking is hardly a worthwhile practice.

[poleaxed]

Neither is wearing armor all the hours of the day, but you manage somehow.

Speaking of, I did what you said. If you ever need to, I don't know, bathe or eat, me room's in the Templar tower. Fourth floor.

[archademode]

[The face he makes on the other end of the line. If she could see it—

Well, perhaps she can hear it, at least. The way his exhale runs as thin as spun thread.]

I will visit when I am inclined.

[Does that sound like petulance? It does, doesn’t it.]

[poleaxed]

Yeah, don't sound so excited.

Let me know when you need another spar, like. Could always use some light companionship.

[archademode]

Not until your armor is repaired.

Or replaced.

[poleaxed]

[She catches herself before she clicks her teeth with disapproval. Maker, is he rubbing off on her? There's a thought.]

Y'know, I wasn't in armor the first we fought, and I won.

[archademode]

Hardly.

[Won, she says, as though it'd been a true contest of mettle without restraint.]

Were this even fractionally true, then it would be due to my own mercy, nothing more.

[poleaxed]

Big words for a bloke who won't fight me.

1/2

[archademode]

[There is so long a pause that sits there, that Jone might very well think Gabranth has cut short their call.]

[archademode]

Meet me in the courtyard.