"Been mercing since thirteen," It happens. His eyes follow the knife, already planning a pitch: Elven, and fine-sharp — definitely cursed — "Can't tell me no one's ever got you."

She's good, she's not that good. The vest does back up, and presses a whine out behind his teeth. Be another few hours before his nerves wear off and the real hurt sets in. Long enough to figure out where the fuck they are.