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yeah i work in area 51, it's pretty chill. usually you just get a tweaker roll by on a "spiritual journey" once a month. they tend to go away once you put a few AIM-9s downrange on their flying saucer
20 days ago
Current
yeah i work in area 51, it's pretty chill. usually you just get a tweaker roll by on a "spiritual journey" once a month. they tend to go away once you put a few AIM-9s downrange on their flying saucer
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likes
2 mos ago
man is closest to god after an ice cold beer in the warm shower. his mind and body are freed. next closest is behind the wheel in a scool zone, also with an ice cold beer in hand. study this well.
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likes
3 mos ago
yeah mom its me can you come pick me up me and the boys were wondering if pulling a potato peeler over tommy's behelit would wake up the little guy in there and it started screaming.. thanks love you
4 mos ago
they should let me into the presidential debates as like a stage hazard. i should be like the negligent drivers in onett, plowing into whichever seniors don't heed the warning that i'm coming
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5 mos ago
frantically flipping through my notebook as i realize i'm late for my monthly bit. bomb. bomb. caesium capsule meets stomach lining. bomb. murder confession. bomb. need new material before they bomb m
"I sent my knife through a spell-slinger's eye, that was one of the highlights." He countered, free hand whipping forth in the motion every mercenary knew, most were good at, and a select few fully mastered. Being in the second cohort was good enough for most anyone. Good enough for him, so far. "I couldn't get out of the way of all the arrows from the Talderians, but their ace couldn't get the dent from the Mordhau out of his helm. Bought me time to do the old gorget can-opener."
Best fight of his life, even with all they'd done... Gerard wouldn't expect anything less. Even the Demonbreaker, towering, glimmering juggernaut of holy steel that toyed with he and Serenity like children... the wraith that he had been paled to his life, and paled to Agrahn as well.
"Florian... I would bet." he grunted, "Wish I'd gotten him, might have gone out something cleaner... Agrahn was a monster. Spent the whole time wrecking me with each swing. Took all I had just to keep him from cutting through me outright. I think the only thing I got in on him was..."
A finger brushed an errant lock of coal aside from his gaze. Long, he remembered thinking at the ball, longer than ever. The brow beneath echoed with a soreness it never earned.
A rough laugh, tension going slack as an all too familiar sentiment was shared. This was why he could loosen up 'round Fionn— they were, at their cores, the same kind of animal.
"Talderians, I think. The really really old style emblems gave 'em away and breastplates. They had an archer cohort, too. Never thought I'd get to see anything like that, but..."
He felt the rush of blood, the flicker of battle-flame in his breast. The showers of sparks as steel danced against steel. The grin he bore spread wider— pulling at the corners, showing fangs.
"Fun's the word for sure, our honored forefather's disdain aside."
His eyes slid up to meet Fionn's, preempting a half-turn of the head. Within the amber depths that greeted the Velt native, there wasn't any artifice to be seen— instead, a quirk of intrigue similar to his own. His suspicions were well-founded: it was something new, rather than slipped free from hidden depths.
"Too well, actually." he began, grimacing as he rolled his wrist, sending the held length of steel into spiraling patterns of infinity, an eight knocked to the side. Weak cuts, but perhaps sufficient to parry a lighter strike. Nothing sufficient to defend against him... but work for familiarizing the grip. These days, he thought often of sword and axe.
"A bowl of dust turning into a field of steel and blood. As if I'd gone back."
Between them, there was no need to elaborate where "back" meant. The sober recount continued.
"Only I woke after Sir Agrahn, straight out of the painting in the hall," he pointed with the tip. "Punched a hole straight through my gut. Felt the whole thing. Before that, felt how easily he could have crushed me at my best."
With a half-hearted wave and a pensive frown, Gerard sent the man on his way.
"Guess we've all been on edge," he huffed, fiddling around with the blunt as it laid in the sun-warmed grass, a bed of soft, forgiving green that made the long-stomped earth beneath find new life. It certainly seemed to hold true to his eyes, if nothing else— the exchange here, his own inability to get out of his own head accelerating to the point even Sir Renar seemed to note it as abnormal...
"Damned dreams."
It came as a mutter in undertone, happening to fall in a lull between the morning breezes as his grip closed around the hilt of his feder, holding it aloft ahead of him in a hand. The flashes ran through his mind— insurmountable pressure above, agony erupting from below. Cold words washing disdain over the burn of the rising thrill.
Back step and twirl. Quickstep across. Lean in, pause. Beat strikes and they jump. Heels clicking against wood flooring. Swing for effect and to evade. The crescendo of the band rises, and their movements exaggerate.
It crashes. They end.
…
The Brass Panther.
A middle-class establishment located in the bustling mercantile district of Aimlenn, it was well-known for its assortment of bite-sized entrees, designed for curated bites and broad palates. With a slender fork, one could tease out a variety of imported seafoods from their shells, or indulge in cubes of game meat wrapped in bacon or puff pastries. Soups were held in smaller cups, meant to be downed in a single go and experienced in its entirety as a medley of harmonious and contrasting ingredients and flavours.
Of course, all this ease-of-eating was so that its guests could be dressed to the nines without worrying about getting any food on their fancy outfits…which also meant that they would be encouraged to step out on the dance floor, perhaps snag a couple of non-complimentary drinks along the way. A woodwind quartet were present today, playing music of a different flavour and tempo compared to a string quartet’s sweeping waltzes, and it was for that reason that Serenity had brought Gerard out.
They had hit the dancefloor first, of course, for it was always sensible to work out before one dined, but after that, Serenity had handed Gerard the menu and let him have a go at it. Now, ten minutes had passed, her glass of chilled fruit juice was half-empty, and the lad was still staring at the first page.
His foot tapped beneath the table, following the time of the unfamiliar instrumentation as he let his eyes slide over the menu. It was a damned sight different from the slow, grandiose waltz that had dominated the background of the ball, but funnily enough, that had made it a quicker study by comparison— the more jaunty tempo was reminiscent of the folk tunes back home. It suited his sense of movement better. For all his affirmations of “using his brain now”, the half-decade of kineticism was hard to shake out of the system in full.
Well, the goal was always gonna be synthesis.
More to the point, more worth concern, about five minutes ago he’d realised he’d not said a word nor really paid attention to the writing on the page in his grip. Looking, but not reading.
“Sorry about that.”
Quickly, he plucked out the names of three interesting-seeming entrees from the page as a whole, and set the thing down. Only path from there was forward— no sense stewing over the awkward silence and prolonging it.
“Just enjoying the music— thanks for the lesson, again.”
“I’m the one making these invitations,” Serenity replied. “For all you’d know, Gerard, I’m doing this just because it’d be unseemly for a lady to dine out alone.”
Not that she would ever care for such things herself.
She swirled her glass in her hand, a practiced manoeuvre learned from watch the members of her household, then took another sip before leaning in. There hadn’t been much time to talk about it, not when the assassination and the monstrosities within the crypt lended themselves much better for post-training conversation, but now? While they were waiting for baked snails, potato swirls, and chicken heart skewers?
“So, tell me. How was the ball for you?”
”Enlightening.” he admitted, leaning back for a moment. “In a lot of ways. Ran into Sir Sergio almost immediately.”
Within the tumult of that night, between assassins and crypts and Demonbreakers, the slow and careful burn of the Ball had practically become a footnote to the rushing chaos. Funny how he’d been so nervous that he’d spend the evening out of his element.
“We ended up swapping stories with some kids— he tried to sneak off on me halfway through, but I managed to wrangle him.” He chuckled softly, bringing his glass of water in for a drink. Lucky for that— his lead had proven a good example to follow.
“Being on the other end of the adoration was actually pretty humbling, to be honest— How about you?” he asked, setting the glass back down. “I don’t think I ever caught what you were up to— all I managed to keep track of before everything went tits up was Sir Renar’s duel, the Princesses arriving, and Fionn chatting up some Hundi pretending to be a noblewoman.”
“Felt like you weren’t deserving of their adoration?”
Serenity raised a brow.
“I was engaged with Lady Veilena Cazt for the evening. Some light conversation, a dance, and then we were off to introduce ourselves to the two Princesses.” Before everything else happened. She never did learn what it was that the Cazt heir wanted with Princess Elisandre, did she?
He couldn’t blame her for that one. Of all the knights he’d forged friendships with, Dame Serenity probably dealt the most in crushing those kind of doubts. Her and Fionn.
“I don’t think that’s for me to decide. In the moment, at least, it felt more like ‘wow, this is what it would have been like talking to me back then’. They were asking if I’d fought a dragon before, if Jeremiah was fallen divine, so on.”
He blinked plainly, then let his brow furrow, as a fourth image arose from that night, fading into focus. A moment and little more caught in the interstice between shrill voices and booming heralds, but something he had spotted from afar.
“Actually, one more. I only got a glimpse of it, but it looked like someone was giving the Captain a hard time right before the Princesses made landfall.” Idly, his index finger began to tap the varnished wood of their table as he sorted signal from the noise that had cloaked it. “Dark hair, slicked, carried himself noble. Wore a lot of black and a little silver. I think he shadowed her on the way over to greet them— Ring any bells?”
If he was to continue being introduced to the new skills expected of this station like this, then he figured it’d be wise to get a feel for the new faces he’d be keeping track of, too. A minorly alien sensation, but so was everything else.
“Edvard Velbrance,” Serenity said. It wasn’t as if ‘dark hair, slicked, carried himself noble’ was all that meaningful of a descriptor considering the current state of men’s fashion amongst the nobility, but it was easy enough to pick out who would catch the attention, and perhaps the ire, of the Iron Roses.
Still, what the Velbrance heir did was minor at best. If one picked a fight with every noble that found fault in the order, they would be starting off another War of the Red Flags.
“He hails from a House in northern Thaln, with three significant traits.” Better to make a list, for Gerard’s own sake. “One, their association with the wine trade. Not much to say there, you’re drinking one of their exports. Two, their loyalty to the crown. For a minor House as his, they’ve sent a fair number of soldiers to fight for the Royals during the War of the Red Flags. Three, their distance from religion as institution. They hold beliefs and visit cathedrals, but do not involve themselves in the more…political aspects of the Church.”
As if perfectly timed, Serenity’s points were punctuated by the arrival of the plates. Baked snails, the white wine bubbling within the shell. Chicken hearts, seasoned with sauces and spices in sequence. Potato swirls, deconstructions of a common vegetable fried in fat and arranged like a rose.
“Edvard himself is ambitious, but considering his family’s gradual rise in power over the last decade, it’s ambition with substance.”
“Hm,” came the reply, having the good decency to remain muted in its vexation— after all, Gerard wasn’t sure what he’d expected, if much of anything. It wasn’t like he had much with regard to the context of that sighting to begin with, so…
He plucked a potato swirl from the platter and popped it into his mouth whole, chewing the thought over as he did the golden, savoury morsel. On the face of it, none of that suggested any basis for stance in real opposition to the Order… As far as he knew. Adding in the consideration that Captain Fanilly herself hailed from a noble house, and thus was subject to personal ties atop those inherited by her rank? There was no telling. Not with so little to work with on the outset.
“Ambitious… Guess we’ll see if anything becomes of that.” For the time being, he’d commit what she told him to memory, inwardly thankful that it had broken down into a simply itemised list. “And what about Lady Cazt, then? My company kept north for most of the War, so I’m a bit out of touch— how’s a kid like that fronting the aftermath? Can’t be easy.”
He was no believer in inheriting the sins of ones’ blood, of course, but he also knew better than to believe the world was monolithic in sharing that ideal.
“A prodigious mage, as those of House Cazt are wont to be, and guarded by a knight like Sir Haelstadt.” Serenity grinned, an uncharacteristic smile that showed her canines. “Almost a shame that I didn’t have the same opportunity as Renar did, owing to the circumstances.”
She was certain she could put on a better show than he.
“Lady Veilena handled herself well enough in the aftermath, as the head of her household. I’d recommend you discard the notion that she’s a ‘kid’, unless you would apply the same moniker to our Knight-Captain or myself.” One could even say that Veilena had political power surpassing that of the Knight-Captain or the Arcedeen scion, after all. House Cazt may have fallen from grace, but their head still had a bond with one of the future rulers of the kingdom, and still had her place in the Mage’s College.
“But enough.”
She took a skewer of chicken heart, popping it in her mouth.
“Tell me about the ladies you conversed with. Surely you remember, at minimum, their names?”
Even only a month ago, he would have blithely answered the rhetoric in the affirmative. That the youth of the three examples presented before him trumped rank, trumped upbringing, trumped the necessities of station.
And yet.
At their age, he was off making war in foreign lands, contracted to a corps of soldiers-for-hire. Throwing the end of his boyhood to the tips of enemy swords— not much of a leg, if any to stand on there. Though their worlds were leagues apart, it would have been short-sighted to ignore this point of intersection. That growing up came swift and sudden, when the world decreed it was time.
But enough.
He nodded, and spoke.
“Angenese Tulburn, Tenessa Heinlein, and Violette Scarnsbek. Lady Angenese is the oldest of them, Daughter of a ‘Sir Galfont’ beneath the Crown. She described him as minor, but he’s recently taken out the captain of a slaving ring. Tells her stories of his exploits from time to time like that— I think she’s proud of him, and ought to be.”
Reaching for the platter of baked snails, a garden pest turned into an apparent delicacy, if the rest of the fare was anything to judge by. One that he was somewhat vexed in approaching, a frown crossing his expression as he contemplated the thing.
“Lady Tenessa’s a fan of histories and myth. She regaled Sir Sergio and I with a retelling of the Witch-Queen’s rise and fall. From the sounds of it she might get too carried away in the fanciful side of any story, but she doesn’t lack for enthusiasm. It was her that if I had fought a fallen divine, seen a dragon, and so forth.”
Was he supposed to crack it open, or just slurp it out? The latter seemed crass, but the former impractical.
“I couldn’t say the same for Lady Violette. I don’t think we got more than three sentences out of her through the entire conversation. She’s an enigma, and moreover one that seemed exasperated to be there. Like the other two had dragged her along when they caught sight of us. The commotion had begun before I could get a bead on the why of her dissatisfaction— My best guess is that I wasn’t the Princesses she had hoped to speak with.”
“Smallest fork,” Serenity spoke, before demonstrating. She took the slim silverware in one hand, one of the shells in another, and then slid the fork in, teasing out the meat in one quick wrist twist. Now loosened from its shell, the meat flowed easily out of the shell alongside the soup as she tipped its contents into the mouth. “If there’s something you don’t know how to do, look before you think.”
This was a restaurant, after all. There were plenty of others who ate similar dishes. She waited for him to try it out, before continuing.
“Good that you remember them. Sir Galfront’s contributions to the Crown aren’t as spectacular as those of Sir Adeforth’s, but there are more common criminals in Thaln than there are villains and heretics.” That, at least, shouldn’t be something Gerard was wholly clueless about. Dragons were wonders, orcs were monsters, but in the end, it was mountain bandits and highwaymen who offered the greatest worries for travellers and farmers. “You’ve any interest in these ladies?”
Mayhaps they could cover even courting, tonight. That’d certainly be fun.
He quirked an eyebrow as the adventurous morsel slid free from the shell and into his gullet, awash with tart wine and rich butter. That was a question that could be spun any number of ways.
”They were pleasant to talk to, the two that deigned to speak.” he allowed, placing the empty shell onto his plate. “Like my sister, if she were born to their circumstances. I suppose I’m also a little curious as to what it was that was on Lady Violette’s mind.”
He never did have an opportunity to get that answer— a mere moment was all that had passed before he was barking orders and urging them beneath cover.
“If our paths crossed again, I’ve no reason not to try and be friends.”
“You have their name and appear to have made a favourable impression.”
Serenity tapped her fork against the empty shell.
“Why leave it on an ‘if’?” Well, there was no value in forcing it. “Unless you were only interested in order to be polite.”
“I’ll admit it was mainly me not wanting to end up with an egg in my face, at the outset.” These talks had a way of sticking with him. He’d wished to prove they weren’t wasted, at the very least. “Beyond that… Hm.”
Another potato swirl. Salty, starchy, rich, the familiar wrapped in an exotic coat. He chewed it over.
“I’m a little unsure of how I would go about the alternative, for one.”
While he knew this was probably a symptom of his circumstances before the Order—a life following constant march, never settling long enough to make a proper friend outside The Unit— he knew too that invoking such would be allowing it to chain him to it, to build in an excuse. Those wouldn’t fly.
“I know some of our comrades write letters to keep in contact with people,” he ventured. Best to just rip the bandage free right now. “But those are often for friends already long made. Would it be appropriate in this instance too?”
He reached for a chicken heart.
She moved to extract the flesh from another snail shell.
It was a rare enough situation; even the more noble knights that she had the pleasure of speaking to saw such encounters and opportunities as conquests. And for all the female leadership that was present in the Iron Roses, there weren’t too many who could serve as good conversation partners in that regard either. The Knight-Captain needed to be better, the Paladin was simultaneously too old and too young, and Cecilia…well, Cecilia acted very much like a male in those regards.
Put in another light? Gerard’s hesitation was precious.
“Yes, it would.” Serenity put on a blase expression. “If they do not reply, then so be it. If they do, you’d be better than if you hadn’t.”
The lioness took a sip, then frowned. The waiter that had passed by to refill it had mistaken its contents for alcohol.
“By doing nothing, you protect your pride. By doing something, you may gain a friend.”
The way the scales tilted were obvious to her.
And it made for a simple, clear argument to him.
Gerard nodded, popping the spiced knot of muscle into his mouth and chewing, a medley of unfamiliar, interesting flavors bursting to life on his tongue. He was right to take the leap on these for certain— right to choose adventure.
“Then it’s something to be done, clearly. I’ll have to track down some ink. Sir Steffen and Renar are always caught up in balancing budgets and the like, I’m sure they’ve supply to spare.”
“And bother Fionn for proofreading your draft.”
”So long as I can keep him from editorialising.” He quipped. ”Goddesses love the guy, but he’s so damn insistent sometimes.”
It was a toothless one, as far as they went. It was quickly chased by the subtle rattling of coinage— Librans being fished for with one hand, as another went for one of the last disappearing morsels.
Serenity winked. An uncharacteristic move for her.
“Just shows he loves you.”
His eyebrows rose, just a bit.
”Careful, now. I don’t need that ex of his getting jealous of me.”
"I'm pretty sure everyone here has said attacking the legs is a bad idea to me today. Or at least not encouraged it."
Verloren Haufen were the front of the front lines. Tip of the spear. In any troop, if you had to throw men into an unwinnable situation for the chance of pulling it free from the brink, they were your charge. Double the pay, but so many more times the risk— A mentality that was impossible to break within its numbers was the primary necessity. Anything less, and facing death would make the unit crumble.
"If I promise I understand, can we move past it?"
Gerard, here, was starting to get concerned about the state of affairs. How'd we get here? He had been internalizing the lecture for little more than a minute, what happened?
He frowned, a puff of wind carrying dissatisfaction into the void that had been carved between the inimical dumbasses by the ongoing miscommunication. The problem with going for the legs... lunging like a low wolf...
Alright, what the hell was it, if the incoming admonishment wasn't "Quit throwing yourself so far forward for that stuff," then?
His arms folded, he closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable from three feet to the right.
Another of the stone-carved effigies loomed within the assembled forces behind the Steel Princess casting his gaze down through the steel of his helm to spilt iron on the floor, the metallic scent upon his nose familiar as any. Fresh enough that it shone a brilliant ruby even in meager torchlight, cast from above by the mercenary's hand, Istvan saw no need to speak presently— he was roughly in agreement with the rest of the lot, and his words would redundantly murk the air where silence would give clarity.
Some arcane trickery had occured, be it a last-ditch effort to consolidate power by the higher ends of the fetid cult or the sublimation of the gambit they'd initially drawn up. A second raid concurrent with theirs was by all reasonable assumption out of the question; the spilled essence too localized, the surroundings too immaculate (save for structural vandalism, of course) by half. He was well-schooled in many areas, but the whims of magecraft did not fall within their number— though an imaginative mind pondered at the possibility of their unwitting participation in some ritual of bloodletting, given the fervor and number of cultists their theater had drawn forth.
Whatever had been done was to be preempted, at least prepared for. Idle chatter would distract.
"Right, Nach. Misspoke." the reply and acceptance was equally swift. Genuine mixup. Though, there was likely something to the idea that Indes had taken Nach's place in his internalized combative hierarchy of initiatives— as hard and uncompromising as the thirst for Vor had been hammered in, was it possible it had skewed his interpretation on the whole? Fighting on the front foot was like breathing— even simultaneous counters had an alien air compared to simple insistence on pressure, pace, and persistence. "And that..."
His brow furrowed, expression twisting into something quite perturbed by the discovered answer to Fionn's rhetorical question. His right hand closed into a fist, then one finger rose beneath his flummoxed gaze.
"Jeremiah,"
Another.
"Sir Erich,"
Three.
"That bloated undead just before him,"
A trio stood tall in the passing breeze, looming larger than they had any right to. They may not have formed a proper excuse within that "W" shape, but they did bring up a pattern that was worth, if not alarm, a certain level of consideration. He returned his gaze to Fionn all but apologetically, well aware of how this wasn't necessarily the point.
"Quite a few, actually. It's weird, now that I think about it."
He cast the three impudent soldiers into the reserves with a wave, folding his arms after a nod of greeting to the approaching Sir Nicomede, the exchange on arcane matters already lost on him, bereft of any spark of mana that he could think of, from the first word. the thoughtful frown he often wore slid back over his features like an old glove, and his brow furrowed as the mind set to work.
"I think we drive at the same point, though— these examples are boiling down to distance control. Her stance and weapon elongate the engagement, giving her more room to bait out overextensions and less commitment behind the change in level than I'd need, since the longsword naturally demands we square up more to utilize both hands for cutting power and leverage. She can keep her feet on a line and play with distances more readily by simply bouncing in and out, where I'm getting in much closer to leverage my frame and build. Bear down on people, use the bind to isolate their sword and nullify cleaner, quicker strikes, not give them room to breathe."
... Good soldier, good soldier, we need a conclusion to drive this to. Theory is well and good, but useless without application.
"So what do I take from that, then— Angle in? Can't be right, I already know to move laterally. Getting ahold of the faster party is generally a good idea, dictate the terms of engagement..."
At mention of his name, Gerard's gaze perked up from the dull feder he'd been halfway through yanking free from the rack— had Fionn been more insistent on pulling Sir Renar into a spell of back-and-forth bickering about his absence earlier in the day, the younger of the two ex-mercs was indeed planning on kicking off the circuit directly himself. If nothing else, his own approach would have been tailor-made to feed the pair that were better schooled situational insight, with the emphasis on aggression forcing exchanges and drawing Lilia's pressure responses forth. Giving them a rough preliminary on how she worked by simply forcing work onto her—
But all things being equal, he welcomed Renar to take it for himself, indicating as much with an compliant lift of the hand as he marched over to Fionn's side, and set the ad-hoc blade onto the soft grass before him as his frame dropped to meet it shortly after. One elbow propped onto a knee, he leaned forward and let his chin rest upon the palm as the bout commenced— seated, but far from languid. His amber gaze, so often clouded by the rolling fog of overthinking, was sharp and alert.
Too often, he let instinct and repetition do most of the heavy lifting when it came to the heat of battle, as there was little room for anything else beneath the rushing sensation. Training, similarly, drew upon leveraging his conditioning and fierceness in spars while he continually strove to polish form on his own. It had gotten him this far. It was growing clear that it wouldn't get him much further— much to the imminent vindication of the other three in their nascent circle of iron sharpening iron. They'd get their ribbing in soon enough.
His gaze flicked back and forth between the dueling pair as the opening salvos were loosed between them. Those instincts had been a crutch for very good reason, it was worth noting— the hunch they'd given him was correct. The girl was quick. Were it not for how he'd dialed in his focus, he might have lost the motion within the burst that had begun it. With her rapier, a low swipe for the ankles, cloaked in mist that melded into hoarfrost into rime.
"That's..."
Let them if they chose, then. His unwitting stubbornness had begun to chip, they'd earned the gloating.
"Kinda the same thing that I do, in a sense of offensive effect."
This was an opportunity to learn the lesson everyone had been trying to pound into his head— and gain those insights for himself. His focus had centered upon that task, and those thoughts were drawn forth as they were formed by mind and tongue in equal measure, floating through the air in a low murmur even as his eyes continued to dart from fighter to fighter.
"The distance is different given the weapon and stance, stretches the ranges out to something more even with most polearms than other swordsmen. Speed's higher. Magic's offering additional lines of attack, but the theory's all the same. Starting by trying to kill the base and mobility, initiating with surprise by shifting vertical levels, and then it's immediately lateral movement and going for pokes while the enemy's still navigating the first range— and then getting dirt in the eyes, too. That one gets everyone once."
The prattling was clearly more for his own benefit than anyone else's, but Fionn Mackerracher lived and breathed the finer details on a scale that seemed to be beyond even intuitive— no better sounding board Gerard could think of, and he was right next to him.
"Different details and method, but same principle. Seizing the initiative and adding a new problem every time it looks like he's got a chance to breathe. This is one other way to do that, work to end."
He frowned thoughtfully, then let it fade— glancing to his friend with a wry, almost needling smirk.
"You wanna lecture me about the part where she sat in indes before the dirt though, don't ya?"
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