[ She takes that whack upside the head like she was born to it, and for some reason he finds this unbearably funny. So easily does this thoughtless hit find its mark that he barks new laughter when she is sent rolling away again. She would surely defend this as her choice, her tactic of rolling with the blow, and his fingers catch in the fall of her hair as she ducks away.
Her shoulders take on the set of fierce resolve soon thereafter, a warrior's posture, and he smirks when he is again confronted with the foolhardy sight of her. Her fists come up, and her voice is meant, he must assume, to slash at him. Is her disgust with his brand of chivalry supposed to wound him? She knows nothing, clearly, of the damage his honor has suffered, and how he has made its fearsome scars his own armor. And yet still gilded; always gilded. ]
Shall I weep for you, instead, or perhaps for your dead father? Are you so keen on joining him?
[ Girls died in dungeons as easily as any spirited lads, and his mind bounds again to the nuisance she must have been on her father's ranch. Probably fearless and curious and hungry, and he is pleased to think she may have put her erstwhile fist in some boy's yammering mouth.
He cannot press her for a fuller account of her history, however, because then her first darts up for his face. Or so it would seem to, and he recognizes the feint too late, expecting her to ally herself fully with the opposite of his advice. All of her untrained, impulsive force does not come up - instead it goes down, at his knees, like some uncouth mule's kick, and he curses when her foot connects with the side of his knee. A bit of fucking armor would have nullified that, but there is none at present.
Hers is only a foot wearing the shield of a sandal, but still it is a sting he was not prepared to bear. Never is he prepared to be insulted, let alone defeated, so he relies upon his superior size when he lunges forward, hands aiming to firmly seize her. Bodily, inelegantly, with the full intent of hauling her like a sack of oats over his shoulder, and in this way deciding that he shall subdue her, to be deterred by no flailing or squirming. ]
no subject
Her shoulders take on the set of fierce resolve soon thereafter, a warrior's posture, and he smirks when he is again confronted with the foolhardy sight of her. Her fists come up, and her voice is meant, he must assume, to slash at him. Is her disgust with his brand of chivalry supposed to wound him? She knows nothing, clearly, of the damage his honor has suffered, and how he has made its fearsome scars his own armor. And yet still gilded; always gilded. ]
Shall I weep for you, instead, or perhaps for your dead father? Are you so keen on joining him?
[ Girls died in dungeons as easily as any spirited lads, and his mind bounds again to the nuisance she must have been on her father's ranch. Probably fearless and curious and hungry, and he is pleased to think she may have put her erstwhile fist in some boy's yammering mouth.
He cannot press her for a fuller account of her history, however, because then her first darts up for his face. Or so it would seem to, and he recognizes the feint too late, expecting her to ally herself fully with the opposite of his advice. All of her untrained, impulsive force does not come up - instead it goes down, at his knees, like some uncouth mule's kick, and he curses when her foot connects with the side of his knee. A bit of fucking armor would have nullified that, but there is none at present.
Hers is only a foot wearing the shield of a sandal, but still it is a sting he was not prepared to bear. Never is he prepared to be insulted, let alone defeated, so he relies upon his superior size when he lunges forward, hands aiming to firmly seize her. Bodily, inelegantly, with the full intent of hauling her like a sack of oats over his shoulder, and in this way deciding that he shall subdue her, to be deterred by no flailing or squirming. ]
What now, mule girl?