He should feel guilt at the sight of it, wretch that he is. Penance paid in blood and service, the promise that he would do better for the name lost to him when Archadia crushed his homeland beneath its heel.
But he is exactly who he is. The lesser of two brothers. The crueler of them. When bloodlust finds him, he knows little else, and beneath his helm is nothing but a furious scowl, baring the bitterness of his own frustration.
He snaps the hilts of his blades together the moment her eyeline drops, letting them lock with a secure click beneath his fingers: with no helmet obscuring her face, he can track exactly where her attention rests— swiftly batting aside her poleaxe with what could pass for his own, now.
“Enough—“
The edges of those conjoined blades go white-hot with sudden heat, painting the air around them with a tangle of ashen embers.
The flurry of swings that advance on her in the wake of it are quite literally searing, lightning quick and without so much as a touch of care or concern for the sparring partner he’d so diligently guarded once before.
The heat, and the shock, and the terror. He'd said he was a magister, and she hadn't listened. Those swords connect into a proper fucking staff. He's a mage and he wants to kill her.
It's daft, but she'd always planned to go out for something a bit more glorious than a spar go wrong.
So she charges him. She can feel searing burns, feel her armor heating, the straps underneath beginning to buckle under the heat. She isn't rich enough to afford the fine stuff. A pauldron falls off, and she doesn't notice. The whole of her attention is focused on a fact she noticed before. No bevor. Short gorget. If she angles this right, she's pretty sure she can hit him in the throat.
Screaming with rage, mouth bloody, she surges forward for one final thrust, intending to catch his head between the dull side of her axe and the point at the top of the pole. "C'mon!"
He can see it. He watches it land, her strike as clean and true as any made by skilled hands.
He feels the impact where it catches his throat, the side of his neck quick to warm in the shadow of his helmet where that metal point snared skin as it coursed along its intended path. His own blade, still humming with untempered heat, hovers but an inch from her gorget in turn— but the sight of it cuts through his seething fury quicker than a breath, and though his helmet remains a stony mask, his swords withdraw, their flame dying as he unceremoniously splits them apart.
"If you kill me," she says, voice harsh and throaty, "make it better than that."
She drops her weapon, fight apparently over. Snaps off her other pauldron, taking off her cuirass as well. Underneath is a worn, tired gambeson. There are burns underneath, but the worst seems to have been caught by metal and padding.
"Fuck me, I feel like a kicked ballbag. You want a drink?"
A demand, not a petition. He feels tired in that moment, in ways he is unused to; the Mist must run thin here, for his magic cuts more from him than it did in either Ivalice or the gods’ own battlegrounds. A faint tingling in his fingertips, armor sitting faintly heavier across his shoulders.
But he’ll adapt, in time.
“Yes.”
Said only after he sheathes his blades, already working to collect her fallen armor from where she’d left it settled in the dirt.
There's more than one barrel of beer on the training grounds. It's not good stuff, low proof and more for room-temperature calories than it is getting soused. Still, it's something, and Jone doesn't have to go far to procure two mugs of the stuff.
She takes her armor back, letting it sit next to her on the ground. "You can't let folk know you're a mage like that. They'll have you in fetters, Gab."
That it was unintentional is a pale excuse, and not one Gabranth is willing to lean on in the face of her sincerity. When he reaches out to take the second mug, it’s only to slide it closer towards him, not to take it up or bring it to his own lips.
He’ll drink it later, once he’s returned to his quarters.
“Is it true, then? That magic holds no place in your world?”
"Oh, it has a place," she says with a sneer, "folk love healers. But even them get round up. Took my brother when he was twelve. Things're nicer now, but if you go around with killing magic?"
She looks at him, lukewarm beer at her lips. "Well, let's say I'll never get to see that pretty mug of yours."
Not in regards to the magicite in Ivalice— not with the strength of will afforded to them by the gods themselves.
“Power is always power: those who are too weak to protect themselves will suffer, and those who suffer will surely be lost in time beneath the heels of those bearing down upon them. Why reject something that could save your world, simply because it bears risk?”
There is a bristling exhale beneath the span of his own helmet as he sets one heavy glove across his throat, ensuring the shallow flow of blood has stopped.
There’s something in him gone entirely to ice at the words ‘fuck if I know’, his hand still caught lingering across the edge of his own pauldron, helmet entirely unmoving even as she draws nearer to him.
She may as well be nothing more than air, for how his stare attempts to bore through her, breath sitting heavy in his lungs.
Her face scrunches up, a bit. "I kill folk for money, mate. Who wants to meet up with that after two fucking decades? For all I know he's one of them plant mages, in touch with nature, and I rip the heads off dragons. Fuck."
She takes a long sip of the beer, eyes squeezed closed.
He can feel it still, anger burning hot like bile in the back of his throat, rising with each passing second. Misdirected, barely bottled— he cannot help but think of Basch and all his found freedom, gleaming in his given armor, not a thought spared for the brother he’d left behind.
He cannot help but look at Jone’s expression now and see her no differently. Jaw cinched so tight that he threatens to bleed once more.
“Your armor comes with me.”
A sudden turn in conversation, he presses past her as he rises: pulling damaged plating into his arms, claiming his own drink last, a dismissal as plain as the waning sun at their backs.
"Oi! Paid good money for that, I did. You'll not have it as some trophy." She stands, following him on quick feet. She feels like a nag, and it heats her face, ugliness rising once more to the forefront. "It were a tie, anyroad."
He does not care if she feels foolish for it, he does not care if her face is reddened or her fury becomes a mark against his reputation. He keeps his strides smooth and even, stopping only so that he might turn to face her fully, footing squared off when he adds:
“Unless you wish to truly challenge me for it now.”
"It's like you don't even know me, luv. Hurt, I am."
Her stance is spread out, ready for a fight, with singed hair and dried blood on her face, an open cut on her shoulder, and raw determination in her hard green eyes.
Truthfully, he had expected this. Longed for it, as surely as he’d yearned to goad Basch into striking out against all reason so many countless years ago.
Time has changed him, granted him less malice in his own hardened heart, that much is true— but he is no less petty for it.
Her strike does him the favor of spilling the drink in hand, offering him the opportunity to let it tumble away while keeping her armor held fast in his other arm. Emptied palm raised, air turning drier by the second, congealing into living flame at his back— a fan of swords splayed like cards, spitting embers out onto the floor like drooling hounds.
They cannot last. They will not last more than a few febrile seconds at most, but this is fine: she need not know that, and it stands firm as his warning when he once again turns to leave.
“Fetch your rest, Daughter of Denerim. I shall see you two days hence.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
But he is exactly who he is. The lesser of two brothers. The crueler of them. When bloodlust finds him, he knows little else, and beneath his helm is nothing but a furious scowl, baring the bitterness of his own frustration.
He snaps the hilts of his blades together the moment her eyeline drops, letting them lock with a secure click beneath his fingers: with no helmet obscuring her face, he can track exactly where her attention rests— swiftly batting aside her poleaxe with what could pass for his own, now.
“Enough—“
The edges of those conjoined blades go white-hot with sudden heat, painting the air around them with a tangle of ashen embers.
The flurry of swings that advance on her in the wake of it are quite literally searing, lightning quick and without so much as a touch of care or concern for the sparring partner he’d so diligently guarded once before.
no subject
The heat, and the shock, and the terror. He'd said he was a magister, and she hadn't listened. Those swords connect into a proper fucking staff. He's a mage and he wants to kill her.
It's daft, but she'd always planned to go out for something a bit more glorious than a spar go wrong.
So she charges him. She can feel searing burns, feel her armor heating, the straps underneath beginning to buckle under the heat. She isn't rich enough to afford the fine stuff. A pauldron falls off, and she doesn't notice. The whole of her attention is focused on a fact she noticed before. No bevor. Short gorget. If she angles this right, she's pretty sure she can hit him in the throat.
Screaming with rage, mouth bloody, she surges forward for one final thrust, intending to catch his head between the dull side of her axe and the point at the top of the pole. "C'mon!"
no subject
He feels the impact where it catches his throat, the side of his neck quick to warm in the shadow of his helmet where that metal point snared skin as it coursed along its intended path. His own blade, still humming with untempered heat, hovers but an inch from her gorget in turn— but the sight of it cuts through his seething fury quicker than a breath, and though his helmet remains a stony mask, his swords withdraw, their flame dying as he unceremoniously splits them apart.
As he exhales, his throat tense with pain.
“Forgive me.”
no subject
She drops her weapon, fight apparently over. Snaps off her other pauldron, taking off her cuirass as well. Underneath is a worn, tired gambeson. There are burns underneath, but the worst seems to have been caught by metal and padding.
"Fuck me, I feel like a kicked ballbag. You want a drink?"
no subject
A demand, not a petition. He feels tired in that moment, in ways he is unused to; the Mist must run thin here, for his magic cuts more from him than it did in either Ivalice or the gods’ own battlegrounds. A faint tingling in his fingertips, armor sitting faintly heavier across his shoulders.
But he’ll adapt, in time.
“Yes.”
Said only after he sheathes his blades, already working to collect her fallen armor from where she’d left it settled in the dirt.
no subject
She takes her armor back, letting it sit next to her on the ground. "You can't let folk know you're a mage like that. They'll have you in fetters, Gab."
no subject
He’ll drink it later, once he’s returned to his quarters.
“Is it true, then? That magic holds no place in your world?”
no subject
She looks at him, lukewarm beer at her lips. "Well, let's say I'll never get to see that pretty mug of yours."
no subject
Not in regards to the magicite in Ivalice— not with the strength of will afforded to them by the gods themselves.
“Power is always power: those who are too weak to protect themselves will suffer, and those who suffer will surely be lost in time beneath the heels of those bearing down upon them. Why reject something that could save your world, simply because it bears risk?”
There is a bristling exhale beneath the span of his own helmet as he sets one heavy glove across his throat, ensuring the shallow flow of blood has stopped.
“...what of your brother? Where is he now?”
no subject
Ignoring the smell of burning hair, she continues-- "Why reject something that- mate, you could've killed me if you'd tried a little harder."
Yet she leans closer to him, grinning at him. "That was bloody brilliant, by the way. Very sexy."
no subject
She may as well be nothing more than air, for how his stare attempts to bore through her, breath sitting heavy in his lungs.
“You never searched for him?”
no subject
She takes a long sip of the beer, eyes squeezed closed.
no subject
He cannot help but look at Jone’s expression now and see her no differently. Jaw cinched so tight that he threatens to bleed once more.
“Your armor comes with me.”
A sudden turn in conversation, he presses past her as he rises: pulling damaged plating into his arms, claiming his own drink last, a dismissal as plain as the waning sun at their backs.
no subject
no subject
He does not care if she feels foolish for it, he does not care if her face is reddened or her fury becomes a mark against his reputation. He keeps his strides smooth and even, stopping only so that he might turn to face her fully, footing squared off when he adds:
“Unless you wish to truly challenge me for it now.”
no subject
"It's like you don't even know me, luv. Hurt, I am."
Her stance is spread out, ready for a fight, with singed hair and dried blood on her face, an open cut on her shoulder, and raw determination in her hard green eyes.
no subject
Time has changed him, granted him less malice in his own hardened heart, that much is true— but he is no less petty for it.
Her strike does him the favor of spilling the drink in hand, offering him the opportunity to let it tumble away while keeping her armor held fast in his other arm. Emptied palm raised, air turning drier by the second, congealing into living flame at his back— a fan of swords splayed like cards, spitting embers out onto the floor like drooling hounds.
They cannot last. They will not last more than a few febrile seconds at most, but this is fine: she need not know that, and it stands firm as his warning when he once again turns to leave.
“Fetch your rest, Daughter of Denerim. I shall see you two days hence.”
no subject
She basks in the heat of the flame until it's gone, momentarily at peace.