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.”
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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?”
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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.