a very special holiday game.

[poleaxed]

FORM: Crystal.
SENDER: Jone of Denerim.
RECIPIENT: All y'all.
NOTES: a history of violence.

[Jone's voice comes out a bit nasal, as if one of her nostrils are blocked. The reason quickly becomes clear:] Oi! You lot! I've a contest. Which of you's the best healer? Fix this old nose of mine... and my face along with it, would you?

It's not especially bollocksed, but which of you can do it fastest, eh? I'm at the mess.

While I'm here, this lad I know, Benedictus? Little Vint. Everybody should attack him-- non-lethally-- when he's least expecting it. Which is all the time, innit? Ben, lad, it's the next step in your training.

Comments

[muckspout]

Glad to hear it. Maybe leave him alone though, yeah?

[poleaxed]

Nah. He needs to know how to fight. [Her voice looses its normal casual tone.] There's a war on and he won't use his magic. He's dogmeat without a proper defense.

[muckspout]

[skeptically, but still friendly] So you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart and not because you want an excuse to beat up the easiest target?

[poleaxed]

I don't beat on anybody can't fight back. What's the fucking point? Ugh.

He reminds me of somebody... I used to know. If I'd taught that lad to fight... things might be different.

[muckspout]

[Damn, Jone, you got him.]

Alright, then. Just don’t kill him.

[poleaxed]

Kill someone? For free? [In this economy?]

[muckspout]

Remind me to keep you away from the rich people here.

[poleaxed]

Hey, now, I don't discriminate. A customer's a customer.

[muckspout]

Oh, I assumed you were expensive. Even more worrying.

[poleaxed]

Eh, used to be. Things've gone down lately, s'why I'm here. You've a problem with mercenaries, mate?

[muckspout]

Not at all. Just worried about [Makes incoherent noises that may or may not indicate that he's gesturing wildly to everything, to himself, and then makes a noncommittal noise.] death? I think

[poleaxed]

Don't worry. Death's afraid of me, not the other way around.

[muckspout]

You're fearsome, no doubt. [A laugh] But, death's afraid of no one.