It's like a knife to his throat, those harsh-snared words, whispered between bared teeth. The scent of salt and sweat and bloodied tempers— most of all his own— and for all the unbidden fury it inspires, defiant in animosity, in the span of dilated tension, the only thing that comes to his embittered mind is—
Yes.
And no.
Because where mercy should dwell, or remorse, or all (lost) sentiment he'd held prior in regards to her safekeeping, he finds his kindled thirst unslaked. That he would have more of this futile struggle, as his hold yanks harsh and hateful against the grain of her throat and her grip alike, willing her to cede as she so ought.
It's a neat way to fight. She'd been expecting the way she usually fights these sorts of things-- to cut herself on the enemy's blade and wrench it away from them, or better, their armor, to drag them around while she bled. She fought armored mercenaries before she could afford armor, armed mercs before she had a proper blade. This is normal, she's sure of it. She isn't afraid.
But Gabranth has impressed her again, brought a different game, a puzzle to unlock. Jone puts her back into it, bracing her hands on his chest-- no, his breastplate-- and begins the slow, halting, painful and fantastic process of pushing back with strength that far exceeds what someone her size and shape should be able to accomplish. The throbbing pain resounding through her makes her blood sing, fills her with a power renewed.
"Wouldn't have it-..." she huffs- "any other way."
that looks a little beyond what Barrow would expect to see in a spar.
"All right!" he calls, jogging over as quickly as he can (which isn't very-- he's a juggernaut when he sprints, but it's too short of a distance for that kind of momentum), "I think that's enough for now, you two!"
He keeps his voice light in full recognition of the look in both their eyes: this will likely end with someone seriously injured or dead if no one intervenes, and Riftwatch needs both of them intact.
If Gabranth doesn't react to Barrow's presence, the latter bends to grip him by the shoulders in an effort to heft him off the prone Jone.
Like a dog pulled from prey with locked jaws, Gabranth fights them both initially, his heels digging hard against Jone’s pull and Barrow’s opposing hold: it is ire that claims him fully, screams in his ears an echoing cry of want beyond reason. An intention to hold fast no matter how they insist against it in their own ways, buckling down to the bone.
And then, somewhere within it, he exhales hot— no more than a flicker of sense returned in the midst of senseless hunger. The swords are unlatched with a sharp twist of his wrists, leaving Jone free of his clutches.
He yanks his shoulders from Barrow’s grip, and turns instead to retrieve his helm.
“A point in my favor.” Said bitterly, still bleeding enmity at a slower pace than he’d prefer.
She feels Gabranth's hot breath over her face, and in that moment everything is wrong; being seen in this moment by a third party is intolerable. Her embarrassment spills over just as Gabranth releases her, and she falls backward into the dust.
If Barrow catches Jone's eye in that moment, he will see pure rage in her expression. It passes.
A sigh, and Jone stands. She doesn't let herself favor her injured side. A kicked animal knows better than to show weakness. "You know what? You can have it. That was clever."
She wants to apologize. She doesn't. In Jone's magnanimity, she says, "Barrow, mate, next time, mind your own bloody business."
There's always the possibility that the intercepted dog will lunge for the handler, and Barrow is quick to back away when Gabranth jerks free of his grip; he holds his hands up, his expression uncharacteristically serious when he looks between them.
The look on Jone's face registers, and he's not surprised to see it. But there's minding one's business, and there's... this.
"Not if it's looking like that, mate," he grunts to her, a hardness creeping into his usually genial countenance, "both of you spitting angry, that's no spar, that's a double trip to the infirmary.
You've got something to prove, go kill another dragon."
Barrow is right. This isn’t how feigned combat is meant to be done, and Gabranth can’t confess to treating any of his other sparring matches even faintly the way he does with Jone. There’s something there each time that sparks in him a terrible, long suppressed habit. Competitiveness, or—
He clicks his teeth, fitting his helm back into place and letting that serve as a dampener for his own racing pulse. His swords are sheathed, every action careful, vying for more time. More peace.
There’s no request for forgiveness this time. He finds he cannot bring himself down enough to even offer false sincerity.
Because she cannot admit to Barrow's face that he is right, and she cannot either bring herself to lying in this moment (the pain makes everything true), she just stares off into the distance between them. "What the fuck do I have to do, to get people in this place to believe I'm a professional..."
She turns to get herself to a healer, walking slowly, but otherwise refusing to show weakness. She'll get her poleaxe later. Fuck it.
"Jone--" Barrow begins, but ends it with a scoff as she paces away; he knows full well what will happen if he pushes her, and none of them are interested in it going that way. He'll check in on her later, when she's had time to cool down.
In the meantime, he turns on Gabranth to fix him with a look that's downright stern; he's seen his face now, and, at least to his mind, knows the type.
"Got anything to say?" Barrow demands. For once, he's not fucking around.
“What would you have me say?” He snaps back, echo granting more purchase to a growl that settles low in his throat, as if Barrow were an undesired intrusion— and in some small way, with his hackles raised and his blood yet running hot, he is.
This, right now, is no place for a man without rank. Without strength.
"For one thing, 'sorry I near killed a woman in the middle of the fucking courtyard', maybe," Barrow replies, his voice raising into an authoritative boom as he steps forward, peering into the eyeholes of Gabranth's helmet. "For another-- 'you're right, mate, maybe I'll show some fucking decorum while I'm claiming to spar, and not be a stroppy piece of shit about it when I'm called off', shall I keep going?"
It's a side of Barrow few have seen, and fewer still have experienced themselves: he cuts quite a formidable figure when he's angry, broad and tall enough to loom over Gabranth without a scrap of armor on him.
Who is he to demand apology? To demand decorum? Who is he, but a ghost of a man stretched thin across the canvas of his life? Let him paint himself with authority, let him challenge a Judge Magister—
They both know how poorly it would fare.
“Go lick her wounds if you are so faithful, hound.” He meets that stare through the metal of his own helmet, fierce-wrought lines a picture of unfeeling iron. Unyielding in its defiance.
“I’ve no desire to hear you prattle, nor do I care what you think of me.”
Barrow opens his mouth, then closes it again. He opens it once more, takes a breath, pauses, smiles strangely, and looks off to one side, like he can't quite believe what he just heard.
It's not that no one has ever disrespected him before: that's par for the course. He deals with it every day. His friendship with Jone is nigh built on it.
But such contempt only comes along once in a blue moon(s). Giving an absent nod, Barrow chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before turning his gaze back on Gabranth, shrewd and piercing.
"You might not have chosen to be here, mate," he says in a low, quiet voice, "but you're sure as shit here now. And you'd better find someplace useful to stick that attitude." He rolls his shoulders to step away, going to pick up Jone's poleaxe, which has been lying on the cobblestones since she left.
"Not doing any favors stuck in your mouth, as it is," he adds, his smirk icy as he straightens and scoffs, "Judge Magister."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Yes.
And no.
Because where mercy should dwell, or remorse, or all (lost) sentiment he'd held prior in regards to her safekeeping, he finds his kindled thirst unslaked. That he would have more of this futile struggle, as his hold yanks harsh and hateful against the grain of her throat and her grip alike, willing her to cede as she so ought.
As she must.
no subject
But Gabranth has impressed her again, brought a different game, a puzzle to unlock. Jone puts her back into it, bracing her hands on his chest-- no, his breastplate-- and begins the slow, halting, painful and fantastic process of pushing back with strength that far exceeds what someone her size and shape should be able to accomplish. The throbbing pain resounding through her makes her blood sing, fills her with a power renewed.
"Wouldn't have it-..." she huffs- "any other way."
no subject
that looks a little beyond what Barrow would expect to see in a spar.
"All right!" he calls, jogging over as quickly as he can (which isn't very-- he's a juggernaut when he sprints, but it's too short of a distance for that kind of momentum), "I think that's enough for now, you two!"
He keeps his voice light in full recognition of the look in both their eyes: this will likely end with someone seriously injured or dead if no one intervenes, and Riftwatch needs both of them intact.
If Gabranth doesn't react to Barrow's presence, the latter bends to grip him by the shoulders in an effort to heft him off the prone Jone.
no subject
And then, somewhere within it, he exhales hot— no more than a flicker of sense returned in the midst of senseless hunger. The swords are unlatched with a sharp twist of his wrists, leaving Jone free of his clutches.
He yanks his shoulders from Barrow’s grip, and turns instead to retrieve his helm.
“A point in my favor.” Said bitterly, still bleeding enmity at a slower pace than he’d prefer.
no subject
If Barrow catches Jone's eye in that moment, he will see pure rage in her expression. It passes.
A sigh, and Jone stands. She doesn't let herself favor her injured side. A kicked animal knows better than to show weakness. "You know what? You can have it. That was clever."
She wants to apologize. She doesn't. In Jone's magnanimity, she says, "Barrow, mate, next time, mind your own bloody business."
no subject
The look on Jone's face registers, and he's not surprised to see it. But there's minding one's business, and there's... this.
"Not if it's looking like that, mate," he grunts to her, a hardness creeping into his usually genial countenance, "both of you spitting angry, that's no spar, that's a double trip to the infirmary.
You've got something to prove, go kill another dragon."
no subject
He clicks his teeth, fitting his helm back into place and letting that serve as a dampener for his own racing pulse. His swords are sheathed, every action careful, vying for more time. More peace.
There’s no request for forgiveness this time. He finds he cannot bring himself down enough to even offer false sincerity.
“See her to a healer.”
no subject
She turns to get herself to a healer, walking slowly, but otherwise refusing to show weakness. She'll get her poleaxe later. Fuck it.
"Goodnight, you two."
no subject
He'll check in on her later, when she's had time to cool down.
In the meantime, he turns on Gabranth to fix him with a look that's downright stern; he's seen his face now, and, at least to his mind, knows the type.
"Got anything to say?" Barrow demands. For once, he's not fucking around.
no subject
This, right now, is no place for a man without rank. Without strength.
That much he aims to make clear.
no subject
"For another-- 'you're right, mate, maybe I'll show some fucking decorum while I'm claiming to spar, and not be a stroppy piece of shit about it when I'm called off', shall I keep going?"
It's a side of Barrow few have seen, and fewer still have experienced themselves: he cuts quite a formidable figure when he's angry, broad and tall enough to loom over Gabranth without a scrap of armor on him.
no subject
They both know how poorly it would fare.
“Go lick her wounds if you are so faithful, hound.” He meets that stare through the metal of his own helmet, fierce-wrought lines a picture of unfeeling iron. Unyielding in its defiance.
“I’ve no desire to hear you prattle, nor do I care what you think of me.”
no subject
It's not that no one has ever disrespected him before: that's par for the course. He deals with it every day. His friendship with Jone is nigh built on it.
But such contempt only comes along once in a blue moon(s). Giving an absent nod, Barrow chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before turning his gaze back on Gabranth, shrewd and piercing.
"You might not have chosen to be here, mate," he says in a low, quiet voice, "but you're sure as shit here now. And you'd better find someplace useful to stick that attitude."
He rolls his shoulders to step away, going to pick up Jone's poleaxe, which has been lying on the cobblestones since she left.
"Not doing any favors stuck in your mouth, as it is," he adds, his smirk icy as he straightens and scoffs, "Judge Magister."