closed | couldn't drag me away.

[poleaxed]

WHO: Butch Porkfist poleaxed & Final Fantasy's Amelia Bedelia archademode & Snidely Whiplash altusimperius
WHAT: I don't want to ride my chocobo all day. Neither does Benedict.
WHEN: Now.
WHERE: The stables.
NOTES: I don't actually know how horses work.

UNO.

Every stable has an old nag, so old and docile no one really uses it anymore. Some of them had names once, but when a horse gets old enough, they just fade into the background until they die. It'd be sad, if Jone gave a shit, but she doesn't, so it isn't.

Nag is a grey mare, born some time in, presumably, the Blessed age. She walks slowly and calmly behind Jone, who is holding a carrot. Nag slowly uses her flat yellow teeth to saw into the carrot.

"This," Jone says to the tower of metal standing before her, "is a horse."

DOS.

Later, at some point after Jone has menaced Gabranth with the platonic concept of equestrianism, she spots young Benedict in the distance. What he's doing doesn't really matter to her, and the fact that she might be about to make a fool of herself barely crosses her mind.

Without warning, she just shouts, with (practiced, but) real (sounding) concern in her voice. "Oi! Ben! They're coming, they are! Hide here!"

She waves her hand, looking generally distressed.

Comments

[archademode]

"That is not—"

Underneath that heavy helm comes a narrowed exhale, one most often heard chasing the heels of Jone's tendency to do what she pleases when she pleases. That he's made no bet of his own, that he's not in the habit of yanking his own charges around on a whim, well— he isn't so childish as to need to state it out loud, so much as he likes to think his behavior speaks for itself.

His posture squares off once more, attention settling on Benedict instead, as if attempting to forcibly will the both of them to fixate on his preferred topic of conversation.

"You are to accompany us for the sake of furthering your battle prowess."

[altusimperius]

Benedict knew they would be collaborating on his training, but hadn't actually imagined what that would look like. Now that he sees it, he feels a nervous pit forming in his stomach, which he valiantly masks with an expression that manages not to be too wary.

"Accompany you? Where?"

[poleaxed]

Jone gives Gabranth a look that says you know you love it, smug and self-assured. She doesn’t know he loves it. She doubts she loves it, half the time. But you have to show a certain sort of confidence, or you’ll be walked all over.

To Ben, she says, “Now, it’s only if you like. I’m not forcing you, and I won’t let this dumb lug try.”

She points to Gabranth, letting him make the offer.

[archademode]

"I expect your attendance." Gabranth counters smoothly, ignoring Jone's own promise of safe harbor.

"We aim to fight a dragon. A Stormrider."

[altusimperius]

"A," Bene glances between them, "a dragon."

That sounds like essentially the last thing he would ever want to do, for multiple reasons, and the suggestion is so outrageous he can't help but smirk bewilderedly.

But Gabranth doesn't seem like the type to fool around, so it might be time to pull out some stops.
"I can't leave the Gallows," Bene says, almost smugly. He's omitting the truth, of course, which is that he can leave the Gallows with an escort, especially on a mission, but Gabranth is new and doesn't know that.

...and hopefully Jone, if she knows, won't care.

[poleaxed]

Jone squints, “thought you could.”

But she’s not clear on the details. And it is probably better if messire treason stays in throwing distance. “Dunno where I heard that.”

She shakes her head. Not important. “If you could, would you? We agreed you’d not fight the thing, just watch how it’s done.”

[archademode]

"Perhaps I ought speak with the person responsible for ordering your stay."

Surely an exception could be made in exchange for the benefit of experience gained, and reputation won by way of slaying something so troublesome.

[altusimperius]

Cutting his eyes nervously to Jone, Benedict is at least quick to recognize that this is falling apart faster than he can save it.
At least she says he just has to watch, and it's not like that's an attractive thought, but Gabranth looming over him is the deciding factor.

"Uh," he stammers, a bit of a waver in his voice, "that's all right, I'm sure it would be fine." That he would rather face a dragon than Flint or Yseult is telling, but it also wouldn't do him any favors for Byerly to hear of an attempt at weaseling out of something.
...unless it was for Byerly's benefit, which it isn't really, so perhaps not.

He falls silent for a moment, then looks hopefully to Jone. "But I don't have to fight it?"

[poleaxed]

Jone shakes her head, taking half a step back as though the suggestion actually struck her. “Cor blimey, no, never. I’d die first. You ain’t ready, and I ain’t got the stomach to send lads to their deaths for me own solitary amusement. Just like everyone else here,” a half-laugh, look how clever, “I ain’t a magister.”

[archademode]

Hilarious, Jone.

"You will maintain your distance, but you will study what is done, and how it is executed." This is said with as much gravity as Gabranth can possibly manage, the hollowed sockets of his helm quick to meet Benedict's gaze, as if boring straight through the man himself.

"So that should the need arise in the future— without warning— you will be better prepared to endure."

[altusimperius]

Looking between them like a spectator in a Ye Olde Thedosian Tennis Or Whatever match, Benedict arches an eyebrow.

"...as long as I'm not fighting a fucking dragon," he concludes with a little laugh, emboldened by Jone to feel somewhat more at ease about his role.

"Just get me the details, I guess." He flashes a grin at Gabranth, clearly sensing and, no doubt infuriatingly, enjoying his irritation as he turns to go with a delicate little wave.
If they're both going to boss him around, he should at least have license to occasionally play them off one another for his own amusement.

[poleaxed]

“Orlesian twat has a dragon on his land. Your job is to make nice with rich tits, but also keep watch on the fight. I’ll bloody quiz you on it, after.”

She says this while slowly beginning to lean on Gabranth’s metallic expanse, as though he were a particularly shiny tree.

[archademode]

“His duty is to learn.”

Said as he levels his arm against her form, nudging her back to standing rather than permitting her to continue lounging against him. If they are to lay out the finer details of their expectations for this mission, then he intends to exercise his due authority.

“He cannot do so if he spends the whole of his time entertaining nobility.”

[poleaxed]

Jone continues to lean, grinning from wider and wider. “Yeah, but he works for Diplomacy. Got to have something to give ‘em, saying I made good with rich Orlesians is always boss.”

Then, in undertone, “told you he were a slippery little twat, didn’t I?”

[archademode]

"You grant him too much."

Says the man who deigned to lower his helm for the son of a magister, ever working with casual determination to keep her— quite literally— at arms' length with each varying degree in posture.

If it frustrates him, enduring her tireless obstinacy, it doesn't show.

[poleaxed]

She tilts her head to the side, as though she isn’t hanging off him. “How so?”

[archademode]

"His work with Diplomacy is hardly yours to be concerned with," Particularly when this undertaking involves the rare opportunity to confront a beast whose mere designation oft sets men's blood to running cold in their veins.

"He is too old to be so fragile, Jone." Her name, without titles or embellishment, stands as testament to the conviction he feels in that moment. "Time will work against him with building harshness, and if he is not yet ready, it will be his end in short order."

[poleaxed]

She concedes to that with another shrug. “Maybe so,” she says, “but we ain’t his boss. Diplomacy office is. Tried to train him a little too hard, once, learned the hard way they jump when he says frog. It’s gotta be his choice, and it’s better to convince him, anyroad.”

[archademode]

To that, he says nothing.

His head is hardly empty— instead it seethes with an endless stream of arguments against Jone's declaration—

But her aim is the same as his, even if her approach is different. She knows nothing of his pains or worries, and he would keep it that way, if it means she feels no hesitation in her stride as they press on.

"Come," He asserts, finally twisting his forearm upwards as if dislodging a child swinging from a branch, offering her no further purchase. "We've much to do before our departure."

[poleaxed]

“Anything for you, Gabby me love,” and she trots off alongside, grinning.