Snippet #2466123

Lounging in a tightly strung hammock, Agnes bit off the end of a thin bread cracker and then pointed the half-eaten end of it at Artora, her passive eyes hinting at none of her usual humor. "I know what you're thinking," she said dryly, turning the cracker over and then popping into her mouth. "And it's not going to happen." She lowered her feet to the ground and dusted off her hands, making a slow rise to her feet. If Artora could scowl, that would be the exact expression he would've responded with. Instead, he curled his hands into fists, taking that as a challenge and advancing toward her. Agnes raised a brow and leaned forward, still sitting in the hammock. "Not on the ship," she said sternly . Taking no heed of her words, Artora pulled back his fist and swung with all his might at the seated woman. She swiftly moved her hand up and caught his punch; the clashing of metal nearly put a dent in both of their gauntlets - Artora could feel the woman's fingers gripping around his hand and while it certainly wasn't enough to crush it, he could feel tremendous power behind it. Judging by her form and her leisurely position as she gripped his hand, it could only have been a fraction of her power. "Not. On. The. Ship," she repeated, this time with more emphasis on each word. Artora growled and wrenched his arm away from Agnes's grip, backing off for now. "You can't win," she said. "The sooner you realize that, the easier this is going to be for both of us."

"We'll see," Artora said in a low tone, turning away with both a hint of disgust and frustration. He still didn't buy it. He knew he could absolutely crush her - the timing just wasn't right yet. He was not used to being overpowered, but the military was very good at picking out individuals who were as strong as - if not stronger - than him. If that wasn't enough, she wasn't the only one, either. A handful of soldiers on the ship were well renowned in their field but thankfully enough, none of them were charged with keeping watch over him and he imagined that they wouldn't give a damn about a scuffle between him and Agnes, even if it ended in death. The higher branches would certainly have something to say, but he would be long gone by the time that mattered, whether that meant long gone in another country or long gone under the dirt.

Agnes dropped down below deck and greeted a few of the other crew members before bumping into a less familiar face. Hiring mercenaries was not a good habit, she knew, but this one had a strong rep and she accepted the job for cheap. Any other mercenary would've demanded at least eight or nine times as much as she offered. Well, that's if she was indeed who she claimed to be, at any rate, but even if she turned out to be an imposter, at least her observable skill was nothing to laugh about and that was good enough for them. The girl - no, woman? It was hard to determine her age upon further inspection. Her features were youthful and childish, but the strong air about her, her demeanor, and most of all her eyes told a different story. She wore dark clothes and wore two single-edged swords at her side, one noticeably shorter than the other. It was a leap of an assumption to make as Agnes wasn't familiar with her culture, but it didn't seem like the swords were intended for simultaneous use.

"You, new girl, I don't believe we've formally greeted each other," Agnes said, extending a hand. "You can call me Agnes." The woman responded with a soft smile and took her hand, giving it a pleasant shake.

"Nice to meet you, Agnes," she answered without giving her own name. Oh. Well. At least it seemed like she was more open and polite than she first let on. Just by looking at her she seemed like the dark, brooding type, but her demeanor was actually kind of cute.

"So how does an adorable girl like you end up on a military vessel like this?" Agnes asked, leaning with her shoulder against the wall. "Pardon me if this comes off as rude, but you don't look very strong."

"No, you're right," she shook her head. "I'm not very strong."

"Then you're fast?"

"As much as the next sword-arm."

"You're making a real guessing game out of this," she laughed. "So what are you good at, then?"

"I am very tired from my journeys," the woman smiled again as she excused herself from Agnes's presence. "I would like to rest."

"By all means," she nodded, letting her pass by. She watched her with a curious eye as she vanished behind the next corner. "What a weird girl," she muttered under her breath. "Is she really here for the money or the lodestone? I'll have to look into her case later." She paused a moment after a sudden realization. If I recall correctly, the last open room was...

Artora looked up from his bunk, lifting his head at the sight of a figure in the doorway. A woman dressed in dark clothing stepped in and wordlessly set her things down. She undressed out of her traveling gear and slipped into something more comfortable and for a flicker of a moment, he wondered if she realized that she was sharing a room with an iridan - but not before he noticed that her body was ridden with scars, almost too many to count. Even he was mildly surprised by the extent of the injuries she must've endured and briefly took note that some humans might be more deceptively difficult to kill than others. It didn't look like it would be possible for anyone to survive with all of those wounds, but she seemed to walk in just fine, not to mention that she carried two swords on her.

It wasn't often that his curiosity was piqued, but he found himself starting a conversation, which was very much unlike him. It wasn't that he rarely spoke, however, he rarely spoke to others as an initiator.

"How do you still stand, human?" Artora asked, the usual unintentional violent growl clear in his voice even though there was nothing hostile about his question.

"I don't know," she answered, turned away from him as she lied down. "Ask the dragons." The living fleshbags called humans were usually very easy to read, but he couldn't discern if she really didn't know or if she simply did not feel like answering. There was a mysterious aura about her, but he couldn't quite put a name to the source. It was bizarre for him to be thinking such a way about anyone else, but there was a strong sense tugging at his instincts when in the presence of this woman. He ignored the lingering feeling and turned away, waiting for the ship to depart. Once they reached their destination, none of this was going to matter. He'd find away, and when he did, he could say goodbye to his life of servitude once and for all.