I.Y. 1180 - Blue Sea Moon - Sunday the 6th
Training Grounds - Midafternoon - Warm
Vridel von Hresvelg
As the first Sunday of the month, it was someone's turn to teach the others something about their culture. For reasons Vridel wasn't entirely sure of, the Professor had been nominated to go first, and in lieu of being from a specific country or region, he'd invited the group of them to the training grounds this afternoon.
When Vridel arrived, most of the others had not arrived yet, but both Cyril and his father the captain were there, talking in low voices about something or other. Jeralt chuckled, though as usual his son's face remained impassive. They were both holding lances, the Captain casually leaning on his while the Professor had braced the other over his shoulders. He raised a hand in greeting to Vridel, who nodded slightly as he took up a spot at the edge of the ring, leaning on the rail.
“So... I suppose we'll be seeing some part of mercenary culture today?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Jeralt barked a laugh. “Culture? I dunno if anything we do is sophisticated enough to be called that. But you'll be getting a show, all right?"
Cyril huffed quietly. “The point of the exercise is to teach each other how different kinds of people live," he explained to his father. “Since they already do barn chores, I thought I should give them a taste of the rest of what you put me through." It was mostly deadpan, but Vridel could sense the undercurrent of humor.
As, apparently, could the Captain. “Ah, so that's how it is. I gotcha. Well, I s'pose it can't hurt to show 'em how it's done."
“So, what you're saying is that we're going to watch you and Captain beat each other senseless?" Mercer stated, making his way towards Vridel. He yawned, stretched his arms over his head until there was a popping noise, and he sighed. “I'm down for that," he stated, rolling out his shoulders.
“I think it might be more than that, Merc," Amalthea spoke next, having been behind him. “Mercenaries train differently than soldiers would, or like we would, and they have their own tactics. It'll be really nice to see that, plus..." she pursed her lips and shook her head as if what she was going to say didn't need to be said. She glanced up at Vridel, smiled, and then turned her attention towards Cyril and Jeralt.
Senka was the next to arrive, though she spared a glance in Mercer's direction, nodded, and stood on the other side of Vridel. At least she didn't seem too upset with Mercer at the moment. She didn't say anything, though, and merely remained quiet.
While everyone else was gathering, Vridel noticed another newcomer to the area as well. It looked like Professor Jeritza had intended to use the ring; or at least her stopped at the edge of it, about ninety degrees away from the students.
Professor Cyril clearly noticed him, too. “Ah, Jeritza. Were you needing the ring? We can move our demonstration elsewhere."
Jeritza shook his head. “No," he said, with his strange, melancholy lilt. Sometimes Vridel swore he recognized it from somewhere. “But if you do not mind, I would like to... observe."
Cyril shrugged, turning to his father.
Jeralt didn't seem to care, either. “Go ahead," he said with a belabored sigh. “One more witness to me getting my old ass beaten, I guess." Vridel snorted softly, even as Professor Cyril clapped his father on the shoulder.
“Old? Never." Jeralt barked a laugh, apparently a little surprised at the gesture, but grinned broadly afterwards.
“All right, kids. So the most important thing to recognize about the mercenary way of doing things is that we don't give a shit about honor, or chivalry, or any of that fancy stuff. If you can win by throwing dirt in the other guy's face, you do it. If you can win by tripping him, you do it. If you can win by ganging up..." he paused, making a gesture as if he expected someone to complete his sentence.
“We do it," Thea stated, seemingly proud of herself for completing Jeralt's sentence. “But, basically you're saying that, in order to make sure we win, that it's okay to cheat?" she asked, furrowing her brows slightly. “Is that... really okay, though?" she asked, causing Mercer to snort softly.
“Not everyone fights with a sense of chivalry or honor; Captain just said that, Thea," he stated, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. “And it's not just mercenaries who fight that way. You'll, hopefully never, come across people who will do whatever they can in order to ensure they live, and that you die," he stated, causing her brows to furrow deeply.
“Mercer is correct, Thea. This is just a demonstration, though. You can take whatever you want from it and apply it to yourself, if that makes you more comfortable," Senka finally spoke, her lips twitching just lightly as if she were trying to smile, but couldn't. Thea nodded her head in reply.
“I suppose so," was her reply as she glanced back at Cyril and Jeralt.
Vridel folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head at the two men in the ring. The Captain didn't seem perturbed by the discussion any more than Professor Cyril did, which was not at all.
“We also don't bother with too many practice conventions. We don't care if our weapons match, or if the other guy throws in whatever magic he's got, or any of that. Not in a spar between equals. This ain't quite that, anymore, so Cyril here's gonna keep his magic out of it for the sake of his old man's bones." Despite the words, he wore the jagged grin of a man very much looking forward to a fight.
“Anything else is fair game."
Cyril and Jeralt faced each other, each taking a few paces back so they were just out of reach of one another's lances. Jeralt firmed his grip on his. Cyril cracked his neck to either side, face settling back into that uncanny stillness he'd always worn when they first met him. Funny, now, how different it seemed from his usual expression, even if both could be loosely described as impassive. This one was cold, too, just utterly void of anything, in a way his usual face was not.
Before it even seemed that they'd settled, Jeralt lunged. In a chivalric duel, they would have had to bow first, and wait for a signal that the match could begin. Then again, this was clearly not that.
Cyril, at least, seemed to have been expecting it. He raised his lance, somehow instantly in a ready grip, and swatted the thrust aside, bending so that it passed through only air to the left of his head. Jeralt barked a short laugh, grin still very much in place, and took a hard step in, swinging low. Cyril jumped, propelling himself forward and using the shorter distance to throw a hard punch, one that nearly cracked into the Blade Breaker's jaw. It did force him back, and then he was under pressure from the Professor's lance, forced onto the defensive. It was a masterful reversal, and a patient one, that had completely changed the roles of aggressor and defender around.
But the Captain was fearsome, and, managing a quick block, retaliated by driving the butt of his lance into Cyril's stomach, doubling him over. The punishment strike missed, though—the professor launched himself to the side and rolled, coming back up to his feet and thrusting again before Jeralt could guard properly.
The practice lance caught him in the side, not quite enough to upset his balance, but he did have to move out of range again to avoid the follow-up.
“Ooh, that look like it hurt," Mercer stated, wincing slightly when the lance made contact. Amalthea merely mirrored his movements, wincing every time someone was hit, however; Senka merely watched. She was following their movements with a strange calculative gaze, but it might have been that she was simply studying their spar.
“I hope that doesn't bruise," Amalthea murmured, folding her hands in front of her as if to keep them from doing something else. Mercer shrugged his shoulders, though. “I'm sure they're used to it, but still," she continued, pursing her lips together.
The spar raged on. And that was sort of a good word for it. Neither the Professor nor his father seemed at all interested in checking their blows, nor in the conventional rules of combat. At one point, Jeralt did in fact throw sand, and Cyril blended lance forms with barehanded ones in a manner that would have seen him thrown out of most weapon-specific tournaments and the like. The way they fought was all about winning. Was all about survival, and they did absolutely everything they could to guarantee it.
By the time it seemed to be winding down, Jeralt had a blossoming back eye and Cyril's lower lip was split, blood dripping down his chin and neck to soak into his collar. Both men's breathing was elevated, but it was clear enough that the Professor had come out of it a little better: his injuries were mostly superficial cuts and scrapes, whereas it seemed Jeralt might actually be nursing a broken rib from a particularly well-placed kick.
“C'mon, kid," he said, shaking his head as if to clear his vision. “Let's finish it."
Without giving any chance to respond, Jeralt lunged, somehow stronger than ever, despite the fatigue and injuries. In an instant, Vridel understood why—a Crest shone on his brow, bright white with the faintest flicker of cerulean blue. His eyes widened. That was—
The blow struck hard, but Cyril's block was there to meet it. Both lances snapped under the strain; the Professor was the first to recover, seizing his father by the throat and twisting around behind him in a fluid motion, placing his head into a sleeper-lock. Jeralt tapped his arm twice, yielding the match, and Cyril released him immediately.
“Vridel, would you mind...?" he asked, shaking his head and losing the coldness to his expression at the same time.
He nodded immediately, hopping the bar and entering the ring. “Of course."
Jeralt was an easy enough patient to treat, merely standing still and quiet while Vridel got to work.
“And that's that," Cyril said, wiping the blood beneath his lip with his thumb. “We're not idiots, so we go easier when there aren't healers around, but any company can tell you that the most common use of vulneraries and things is patching people up after practice. Harder to use effectively one the field, after all." He paused. “If you've a mind to try practicing like this... remember to bring some with you, and make sure you stop the second someone yields."
“Noted," Amalthea stated, nodding her head at the same time. They had all at this time, entered the ring with Cyril and Jeralt, Amalthea making her way towards Cyril with the other two. Senka regarded Cyril for a moment, her eyes slightly narrowed before she tilted her head.
“Do you want me to take care of your lip?" she asked, referring to at least healing it so it would stop bleeding. Mercer must have taken it the wrong way, because he snickered beneath his breath as Amalthea looked vaguely confused. Senka merely attempted to roll her eyes, but she half succeeded and turned her attention back to Cyril.
He nodded slightly, murmuring a word of thanks, and ducked his head slightly to facilitate the assistance.
“Both of you don't pull your punches, do you?" Mercer stated, lacing his hands behind his head. “And I'm sure we'd all like to practice like that, eventually, especially Sofia and Sylvi. They're the ones who are doing mostly the bare-fisted stuff," he stated, sighing softly as he dropped his hands. “I'll just stick to my arrows, thank you."
“Light weight," Senka stated, earning a light chuckle from Mercer.
“I suppose I am."
“On the contrary, Mercer," Cyril said after Senka had finished with his cut. “I've an assignment for you. As Sorcha couldn't be here, I'd like you to convey the lesson to her when she's recovered." It seemed that there was almost a trace of amusement in his tone, but at the same time his expression was perfectly serious—he was really asking Mercer to do it.
Vridel thought he could see the reasoning, too. It would prevent Sorcha from feeling left out, force Mercer to practice his melee techniques against someone who would take things seriously... and perhaps, let him feel as if he'd gone some way to making up for his earlier error. Quite apt, really.
He finished with Jeralt's injuries and stepped back. The captain gave him a nod of gratitude, rolling one of his shoulders and setting his opposite hand on it as if to rest the joint. “You said this was some kinda cultural thing, right kid?" At Cyril's nod, the professor continued. “Any of you kids ever been fishing? Was thinkin' about taking trip out onto the lake this afternoon."
Vridel was struck by a fuzzy memory, something about bad fish and then a boat capsizing in the middle of the night, and exchanged a glance with Mercer, a smile twitching at his lips. “I'm terrible at it," he admitted, “but it sounds... like a good idea."
“I'm offended, Teach, but sure. I can relay the info to Sorcha," Mercer replied with a light shrug of his shoulders. Amalthea's eyes brightened, though at the idea of fishing.
“I've never gone fishing, either! Even though we have a pond, here, I've never been able to go. It sounds like it could be fun!" Amalthea stated as she glanced excitedly at everyone else. Senka merely nodded her head in agreement as Mercer snorted softly, his eyes briefly meeting Vridel's.
“I've been fishing once, but... I guess it wouldn't hurt to try it again," Mercer spoke as he grinned.
“I suppose that means we're going fishing. Perhaps you can instruct us on what the best techniques are for catching them?" Senka stated, turning her attention on Jeralt with a light tilt of her head.
He snorted quietly. “I guess I know a few tricks, but it ain't really that complicated," he said. “Let's get ourselves some boats and go from there."
As it turned out, the number of them meant that two boats were necessary, so Cyril and Jeralt split the students between themselves. Vridel wound up on Jeralt's boat, which didn't bother him. After a bit of an impromptu lesson on bait, he cast his line off the side, and settled down as Jeralt seemed to be, though admittedly he couldn't make himself hunch over quite that far.
Mercer and Thea had joined Vridel on the boat. It should have been an even number, three on one boat and three on another, however; Mercer seemed intent on joining Vridel's group for some reason. That left Cyril and Senka taking the other boat, but they didn't seem to mind. Amalthea seemed to be having trouble hooking her bait, though, and was frowing as she attempted to try again. She glanced at Vridel for a moment before Mercer took her bait from her.
“Let me help you, Thea," he stated, snickering softly as he tried hooking her bait. It took him a couple of tries as well before he succeeded. She beamed at him with a large smile and took her pole back.
“Thank you, Merc!" she stated before finally casting her line off to the other side.
“No problem, Thea," he stated, winking at her. She seemed to be slightly embarrassed by it as a light pink dusted her cheeks, and she cast her gaze away from him. Mercer snickered again.
Vridel narrowed his eyes at Mercer, quite certain that he'd done that on purpose, probably hoping to provoke some kind of reaction from him. Annoyingly, it was at least somewhat successful; he felt a flash of irritation when Amalthea blushed, and pointedly turned his eyes out towards the lake. “So do we just sit until something bites, or what?"
Jeralt hummed. “Well, you can. I think it helps a little to reel it in slowly. Fish can kinda see the motion, and will go after it. If you bring it all the way back in and the bait's still on it, you can just cast it out again. No need to reel too quick, though."
From the other boat, not too far away, Cyril cast his line, propping his feet up on the side and leaning his back against the other. Rather a more relaxed posture even than Jeralt's, but perhaps it worked just fine, too.
Senka had seemed to be doing a bit better than Amalthea had, hooking her bait with some ease before casting her line out, too. She spoke something Cyril, though it was too low to hear what it was. She was probably asking him the same thing about fishing since she began reeling her line in, slowly. Mercer smirked in Vridel's direction, not content on leaving it be, though.
Amalthea had started reeling her line in, slowly, as Jeralt had stated. Mercer had followed suit, but he was sitting relatively close to Amalthea. She might have not noticed how close he was, but the blush on her face had not receded. “Oh?" she stated suddenly, pulling her line a little. “Oh! I think I got one!" she stated, reeling in her line a little quickly. Mercer had placed his down as she tried reeling in her catch, however; it must have been slightly stronger than her as she was losing her grip.
“Here let me help, Thea," Mercer stated, shooting a quick smirk at Vridel as his hands clapsed over hers, and he pulled as she reeled. Her face was a furious red, though it was hard to tell if it was the exertion, or how close Mercer was. The line broke, however, and Amalthea shook Mercer's hands from hers, pursing her lips as she glanced out into the pond.
“Aw, my line broke," she murmured, causing Mercer to raise a brow. “How... um, how do I fix it?" she asked, turning her attention to Vridel and Jeralt. Mercer sat back in his spot, though, seemingly satisfied with his work. Amalthea's face was still red.
“Mercer," Vridel said lowly, aware that his displeasure was probably clear to the two other men in the boat, at least. “Maybe you should worry about your own line."
Jeralt sighed, bracing his line on the small boat bench he occupied and gesturing for Amalthea to hand him hers. “Nothin' too complicated. You've lost the hook and bobber, and the bait, but that's why we brought extra. Vridel, grab me one of each from the box, would you?"
Under many other circumstances, Vridel would perhaps have bristled at being so casually told what to do, but honestly he didn't mind here. Was sort of grateful for the opportunity not to have to take offense at every little thing. Even as much pride as he had, it got tiring after a while, having to posture like that to maintain the appearance of strength. An especially important and difficult task, since his return from exile.
So he opened the lid of the tackle box, handing over the hook and bobber, then dug around in the bait container with no concern for the dirt until he found a blowfly larva, which he promptly skewered on the hook when Jeralt held it out towards him.
“There," he said, handing the line back to Amalthea. “Good as new." He paused a moment, then shook his head. “I can understand the nobles not having fished before, but I thought you might have, being from the monastery and all. This is a great lake for it. Feels like the fish never run out, even though it feeds so many people."
There was something a little sad in the way Amalthea smiled, and clutched her pole closer to her. “I wasn't really allowed out of the monastery," she stated, sitting back down in her spot. She kept her gaze to the floor as she seemed to contemplate something. “I... was only recently able to leave the monastery when I was able to join the Blue Lion House. Before that..." she paused, glancing towards Vridel and Jeralt.
“I spent a lot of my time confined to the Monastery. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone, or make that many friends. It became dangerous, or at least that's what my sister said. Lady Rhea thought I was putting myself in unnecessary danger, so she had me... locked away until a year or so ago. I know she was only looking out for my best interests, I think, but I wasn't able to experience things like fishing. It's why... it's why I enjoy learning all these new things with you all."
“Sounds rough," Jeralt said, an odd tone to his gruff voice. Clearly it didn't come as especially welcome news to him, but he didn't seem surprised, either.
Vridel was considerably closer to livid. He knew a thing or two about confinement, what it could do to a person, and the false assurances of safety and protection that were so often used to justify it. Sometimes it felt like his life had been nothing but a succession of cages with gilded bars, until they weren't gilded anymore and he'd finally been shown the truth of them.
It's for the good of the Empire, you know. It's your duty as Prince. You would't shirk your duty, would you, Vridel?
Tightening his jaw, he banished the memory.
Mercer's brows were furrowed deeply as he glanced in Vridel's direction. “And I've learned so much because of all of you! Even you, Captain! I'm even able to do this, now!" Amalthea stated in an excited manner, trying to hide whatever sadness she was feeling about it.
He didn't know when he'd lost that. The ability to see anything so innocently. Perhaps ignorantly, even, but he couldn't bring himself to disdain it. Most likely, her cage had only gotten bigger. But Vridel knew even that could feel like a gift.
Someday. Someday the door would open.
Even if he had to tear it off the hinges himself.
Sighing quietly, he settled a little further into his spot, shifting sideways just a bit. The boat was kind of cramped with just the four of them in it, so doing so brought his arm into the slightest contact with Amalthea's shoulder. He doubted he had any words in him right now that meant anything, or would be any kind of real comfort, so... he figured the least he could do was remind her that he was present. Maybe that would mean something.
Or maybe he was just an idiot. It was getting harder and harder to tell.
Amalthea smiled at him, the same bright smile she always wore, when his arm made contact with her. “Well I guess that's what these culture Sundays are for, then. Teaching little Thea about the outside world in order to help her adapt," Mercer stated, grinning lightly as he reeled his fishing line in. Amalthea's smile widened, forcing her eyes to narrow as she nodded her head.
“I'm grateful to have friends like you," Amalthea stated as she glanced towards Vridel, as if she were directing the statement specifically for him. “I've gotten better with axes because of Vi, and now I'm learning how to fish. Even though I lost it, I still managed to catch one, so that's one more victory for me," she continued, earning a chuckle from Mercer.
“Pretty good for a first effort," Jeralt added, jerking up sharply on his own line before beginning to reel faster. The pole in his hands bent at a rather alarming curve, but he didn't seem too concerned, simply pulling the fish in steadily until it was right at the side of the boat. Hauling it up with both hands, he deposited it, flopping around, in the boat next to him, then picked it up just behind the gills. “Teutates pike," he observed. “Not bad grilled." With a swift cut from the knife at his belt, he ended its struggles, dunking it briefly back in the water to shake off some of the excess blood, then set it in a bucket and re-baited his line.
“So how's the kid doing as a teacher?" he asked, casting again.
“I'd say he's doing a decent job, so far," Mercer was the first to reply, still reeling his line slowly. He didn't have a bite, yet, but didn't seem to concerned about it. “I don't think any of us would be so far along in our training without his guidance," he continued, his eyes glancing towards Cyril's boat. He huffed lightly, but shook his head.
“I think he's doing an amazing, job, though. I was able to pass my heavy armor certs because of him!" Amalthea stated, looking rather proud of herself. “If he hadn't shown me the different pieces of armor I could put together, I'm not sure I would have been able to do what I needed to," she continued.
“Heavy... armor?" Jeralt blinked a little at Amalthea, no doubt confronting the same oddity that almost everyone did when she mentioned that. For a moment Vridel tensed just slightly—while there was some humor in the image, he didn't particularly wish for anyone to laugh at her, even if it was well meant.
Jeralt only huffed, though. “Alois mentioned you," he said simply. “Glad the kid could help. He's pretty good with that sort of thing, but I wasn't sure about his people skills. Don't think I've ever seen him so happy, though. It's hard to tell because he never smiles. Never cried as a baby, either. But he does like you all. I guess I can tell after all."
Mercer grinned, somewhere caught between mischeivous and scheming. “Well," he drawled, throwing a glance back towards Cyril's boat, “rumor has it that he actually smiled. At her," he gestured towards Senka who seemed on the verge of smiling herself. He snickered softly as Amalthea turned her attention towards Cyril's boat, and smiled brightly.
“Oh, wow. I don't think I've ever seen the both of them smile like that, before. Senka usually doesn't smile. She tries, but she's not that good at it, kind of like Professor," Amalthea stated as Mercer snickered.
Jeralt followed their collective eyes and sighed heavily. “Oh great," he mumbled, though he didn't elaborate. Vridel had a feeling he knew what that was about, though he didn't ask for confirmation.
“Good grief, Mercer. Could you make it any more obvious we're talking about them?" Vridel groused, rolling his eyes when the Professor did in fact look rather quizzically over in their direction. Well, quizzically for him. Perhaps, like his father, his students were simply getting to the point where they could tell what his face meant, even though its variants were subtle.
His compatriot was saved from answering, however, by the fact that Vridel felt a tug on his line, and then another. That was more than just the flow of the water. “I think I might have something," he observed.
“Sharp jerk up. You want to get the hook stuck in there as well as you can," Jeralt said. Vridel complied, then started reeling.
“Not so fast. Ease it in first, and pick up speed as you go. Less chance of losing the line that way. Let it wear itself out."
By the time he'd hauled the fish over the side of the boat, Vridel's arms were surprisingly tired. It flopped around on the boat's floor, splashing both him and Amalthea until Jeralt grabbed it in much the same way as the other one, and showed them all how to make the same cut he had on the pike earlier. “Huh. Caledonian Gar. Not bad, kid. This one makes a nice stew." It was quite a large fish, too, something that made Jeralt nod approvingly before he deposited it in the bucket with the other.
“I'm getting hungry, now. All this talk about grilled fish, and now fish stew..." Amalthea stated, pursing her lips together as she stared at the fish. She didn't seem to mind that it had splashed her, though, and merely kept her eyes on the fish. Mercer laughed at the statement, nearly falling out of his side of the boat. Amalthea grabbed his arm, though, and managed to pull him back in.
“And you tell me I need to be careful!" she stated, frowning at him. Mercer laughed again as he merely shook his head.
“How ever shall I thank you, then? A kiss, maybe?" Mercer stated, his lips pulling into a large grin. Amalthea's face turned a bright red before she took one of the fish out of the bucket and shoved it in Mercer's face.
“You can kiss that!" she muttered, frowning slightly and crossing her arms over her chest as she huffed. The blush on her face only deepened.
Vridel couldn't help himself at that one. He laughed outright, unable to prevent the shake of his shoulders as Amalthea brandished a fish in Mercer's face.
“You heard the lady," he said with a sly grin. “Kiss the bad fish, if you want to show your gratitude." He trusted that Mercer would remember what that meant, aside from the obvious.
Mercer, at this point, was laughing uncontrolably until Vridel's statement. He looked slightly sick at the statement, and gagged. “No thanks. I'd rather not be poisoned by the slimy stinky fish," Mercer responded, catching on to what Vridel had meant. “Besides, I'd like to keep my head, thank you," he continued, snorting softly.
“What about you, Vi? I know you'd just love the chance at giving the bad, stinky fish face a big smooch," Mercer spoke as he shoved the fish near Vridel's face. “C'mon, give your Queen Fish a little kiss. I'm sure she'd like it."
Vridel frowned. “I'm not the one who was talking about kissing anything," he replied, face contorting. Even fresh, the fish smelled strongly of its own blood.
And then it occurred to him. Really, he'd been doing a good job tolerating Mercer's nonsense for the past while, and it wouldn't do to leave things as they were, lest he feel he'd won or something. So, with a quick motion, Vridel yanked the fish from Mercer's hand, deftly shifting one foot up and over Amalthea's legs to capitalize on Mercer's thrown balance. At exactly the right moment, he let go.
He didn't even watch the splash, casually tossing the fish back into the bucket and putting his foot back in front of him. “Sorry," he told the others, not really sounding sorry at all. “I might have scared the fish away."
Jeralt looked torn for all of a moment before he chuckled. “Kid's from Derdriu, right? Might be part fish himself."
Amalthea didn't hide her laughter. It was light and bubbly as she tried to contain it. She looked slightly torn between feeling bad about Mercer's condition and laughing at him. Mercer, however, glared at Vridel from the water's edge, not quite fully submerged in the water, but enough so that only his nose and top part of his head was breaching the surface.
“Serves you right, Mercer," Amalthea finally stated as Mercer rolled his eyes and made bubbles in the water as if he were grumbling.
“It does," Vridel agreed, still smiling rather wickedly. “And no, I am not offering to help you out of there. I'm not an idiot."