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

[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.