CRYSTAL | maybe you should wait.

[poleaxed]

FORM: Crystal
SENDER: Jone
RECIPIENT: Y'all
NOTES: Comments may be spicy.

Is anybody dreaming of getting back topside? Know I am. Blimey, a sweaty fucking pit, is Orzammar.

We've a tennis court. That's jeu de paume for the rest of you. [Her Orlesian is surprisingly not terrible.] It ought to be finished by the time we're back. I know, I know, you don't like to train in the yard, it hurts your knees or your bloody feelings. That's what the court's for. Let's play a game and get your stamina up, aye?

Noticed we've had some new folk lately, and I wanna say again: I'm Jone, the six-foot-bitch in the training yard with the red hair. I'll train you, and I'll do it right. You ain't for swords, we'll find what you're for. Free fucking service, you only have to make an effort.

Think of it this way: if you work hard enough, get strong enough, one day you'll get to break me nose.

Comments

[clawings]

More voting, less divine right, but you've got the idea.

[poleaxed]

You were landed? Uh- Sir?

[clawings]

Nah not exactly. [ Fuck how does this come up twice in ten days? ] My father was a prince, but from a different country than where I learned to fight.

[poleaxed]

Oh, you were a hostage ward. That's well fucked.

[clawings]

[ Erik has to laugh a little. She's not... entirely wrong, is she? ]

Was a little diff'rent than all'a that, but yeah.

[poleaxed]

Reckon it would be, other worlds and all, but some things say true.

Ought I've been calling you your majesty?

[clawings]

[ A snort. ]

Nah. Just... gettin' used to the idea of people knowin', I guess.

[poleaxed]

Good, 'cos proper royals're all pissants.

[Not that she's ever met any.]

You fight proper and ain't a bellend. All that matters in this outfit.

[clawings]

Agreed.

Thanks, Jone. Ain't too bad yourself.