Scene #8381: Ifighte Me Aboute Hit

Owner	Pose
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	<B-anter> Bercilak says, though not disapprovingly, "Everi-whanne I am ofheren thee, thou'rt alwais biginnen shit." <B-anter> Petra Soroka \| Who do you mean Berc? <B-anter> Bercilak says, "I imene Nephra. 'Ha ha, would hit not be sporteful if everinne hath thee in hatinge? Ah, but I speke hit japingli--in lasse...?'" <B-anter> Nephra Tangent says, "Haha. Touche. I am wounded. Slain upon this day." <B-anter> Bercilak says, amused, "Thou shalt be, whanne I fucking GATE thee." <B-anter> Nephra Tangent says, "Haha. Is this a threat or a flirt. No preference, haha, I just wanna know what I'm in for." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "Hit dependen." <B-anter> Nephra Tangent says, "'Hit dependen' on what, hm?" <B-anter> Bercilak says, "Hau muchel doth thou uplift?" <B-anter> Nephra Tangent says, "Haha. A lot." <B-anter> Bercilak belly-laughs. "Thanne 'tis unk bothe." The Green Knight imagines it very possible that Nephra is his favorite sort of person. As is his way, he also imagines that this possibility needs testing. So it is that he's made his way to WARTORN VALLEY. As the name might imply, this place is steeped in blood, a desert wasteland spanning miles outside the nearby Clan city of Old Athen. Outside its walls, a scattered and hodgepodge community eke out a difficult existence, occasionally visible moving through the ruins. Outcasts, mutants, criminals, malfunctioning droids, vagrants, the exploited and the overlooked make their home here. Hot winds howl in fits and starts, stopped up by the bombed out, exposed, sandblasted husks of old homes and buildings. Twin midday suns glare down on partially submerged mechs, droids, transports, gunships, stripped and scavenged and scoured like the bones of dead fish on the sea floor. Standing amidst it all, further out than most dare to venture, is Bercilak, axe shouldered with one thickly corded arm, while the opposite hand navigates a menu overlaid atop his blood red irises. Bercilak started a group chat. Bercilak sent image.rnif. Nephra receives two texts from the Green Knight. The first is an image. Grinning wide in the middle of a wartorn wasteland, his undercut mohawk blows in the breeze, as green as the rest of him save his pearly whites and those sanguine irises. A massive greataxe, itself the beneficiary of far-future technology, is shouldered with one arm. The axe's haft is as tall as Bercilak, its beard large enough to snare human necks. His black t-shirt, stretched over broad shoulders and pectorals, bears a depiction of a skeleton popping a wheelie on a flaming motorcycle, giving the viewer a middle finger. A slog above and below the skeleton reads, taken fully: HEARTS STARVE AS WELL AS BODIES \| GIVE US BREAD BUT GIVE US ROSES [Bercilak] journei to Wartorn Valley if thou lest an asse-betinge
Nephra Tangent	[Bercilak] image.rnif [Bercilak] journei to Wartorn Valley if thou lest an asse-betinge Nephra's dilapidated flip-phone screen needs to be squinted at to make out pictures, but she's more than happy to let out a whistle and let imagination fill gaps in resolution. That's one hell of an axe on that man. Never one to let an offered smackdown go to waste, she's quick to respond in kind. [Nephra] asse-betinge. u got it, captain [Nephra] my haft is longer bee-tee-dubs [Nephra] frontcamera07.jpeg It seems she intended to take a picture of her own oversized spear, but through the wonders of modern technology, has instead sent a photograph of the top of her head and an unremarkable, poorly-lit ceiling. No correction follows it. Honestly, it could be on purpose. Navigation consults and warpgate journeys can get Nephra in the realm of the wartorn valley, but like so often is the case, the rest of the distance under the oppressive sun is one she'll have to take on foot. Her armor makes that easy enough, at least, and the surroundings and bystanders don't feel like the type to balk at someone briskly jogging past in what amounts to a body-worn tank. Faint clouds of dust give rise to her arrival before she's clearly visible, a black, crimson, and turquoise speck. Carrying a ten-foot pike across both of her shoulders, balanced almost like a tightrope walker's pole. Eventually, her pace slows to a halt, with heavy bootsteps audible over her faintly elevated breath rate. "Haha. Taller than your picture made it seem. That's a first." With only one eye, her expression is flatter than her bared-teeth grin quite fits, but with a flourish, she tosses the spear into a spin above her head, her posture click-snapping into form, before catching the polearm with both hands simultaneously. Front towards enemy. A dull whine starts to wind up from somewhere underneath the overlapping, twisting metal of the Androktasia suit. "What's the terms? Any? None? Haha. If it's to the death, big guy, gonna warn you- it'll be awful hard to scrape me out of this metal shell~."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Nephra's assessment of the locals is spot-on--she fits in so well that no one gives her a second glance, on her way to the meeting place. >Haha. Taller than your picture made it seem. That's a first. "Bahaha!" Bericlak's palm, broad enough to cover the face of a more normally-sized person, presses to his stomach, his head thrown back in a hearty laugh. Grinning wide, he motions with a green index towards her spear. "And I espy thou spake sothli aboute thy haft. This, so als, is ifirst." >What's the terms? Any? None? If it's to the death, big guy, gonna warn you- it'll be awful hard to scrape me out of this metal shell~. A good-natured chuckle rumbles its way up, as the Green Knight looks Nephra up and down. "I dout hit not," he says, hooking his thumb into the loop of his black jeans, idly pressing it against the metal studs on his wide belt. "Nay, not to the deth, elles that we shalt ne'er ileve," he grins, thick-soled motorcycle boots crunching on debris as he hops a foot down from the hulk of a forgotten gunship. Rolling his thick neck until it pops, he is bathed in a steadily encroaching wave of blue light that starts at the soles of those boots and works its way all the way up his body. He, too, has a suit of armor, stored in the cloud memory of the literal cloud of countless nanites always swirling about him. Dense, machined green plate is set over a tough black bodysuit, beset with vents and in places, even microthrusters. The armor looks heavy--which makes it all the more absurd when, overtop of the upper portion, there materializes a bespoke 'breastplate' with pauldrons. It's more like some sort of industrial harness, exaggerating his already imposing frame and humming softly. A cloak of interwoven rye grass and hyacinths spills out at his back, as he gives a few windup swings of the axe, pacing to and fro before her. "Hau aboute... until we art bihowen in som-thing elles," he says, with a mischievous, lopsided grin. 'Something else' could mean a lot of things, His wink disappears behind the sleek black t-visor of a rapidly constructed bucket helm. "And anau... HATH AT THEE!" The axe is dropped from its shouldered position with alarming speed for a man of his size, so heavily armored, eased into a swing with his hand all the way down the haft to put its reach at issue. The edge of the axe glides through the air in a lateral slash, yanked back after the apex that its wielder might choke up and guide it into a defensive stance. His feet are in constant motion, making minute adjustments in their placement and his position to try and coax a respons. His upper body is kept almost relaxed, as if waiting for his chance to juke--absurd as it is.
Nephra Tangent	"Nay, not to the deth, elles that we shalt ne'er ileve," When Nephra grins back in responss, it's hard to tell if her smile is from excitement, happiness, or just gritted, bared fangs. For someone who doesn't wear a helmet when she fights, it may be a surprise that only one of her teeth is replaced with metal- sharpened and glinting in the overhead sun. When Bercilak's own armor appears, out of thin air, she lets out a whistle. "Heavy. Is it slow? D'you use it to be tough? Or are you just the kind of guy who likes to throw weight around? Haha." I like heavy. That gives me plenty to work with. "Cloak's pretty. Wouldn'ta figured you for a floral type, but..." Click-twitching with her motion, the exoskeletal framework cradling Nephra from behind raises her suit's shoulders, in time with her giving Bercilak an approving nod. "Until we're..." That word escapes her, but the effective meaning doesn't. "..Something else. To something else it is!" She snaps into motion the second the green knight's axe begins to move, her footwork immaculate as she sidesteps opposite the direction of the mighty axe's swing. Lateral movement is good, with such a height difference, and on sheer neuroelectric instinct, gravity shifts, turning ambient weight into an unwanted ghostly grasp on its haft, pulling downwards like a dropped anchor. It still hits, and its force still hurts, Nephra would never deny herself that, but it collides in a sparking shower with a raised-up twisting knee- where she wants it to. Spinning her body with the force it imparted, before slamming her crushingly heavy boot back to the dirt with a resounding echo, Nephra lets out a laugh. /Now/ it's clear, as adrenaline pumps through her veins, and wind brushes past the minute metallic sensory probes covering her shell, that she's ready for fun. Her own spear's razor-sharp tip is plain, mundane, and built out of a two-inch thick steel pole. Heavy, duct-taped (for style /and/ grip control, yay effeciency!) and snap-moving wicked fast, she weaves it through the air to try and prod past Bercilak's guard and reach metal, if not blood, the reach it offers giving her just enough time to /try/ to react to whatever he has next even as she presses her offense. Quick thrusts pair with jet flares pushing her inwards, retreats with snap-creaking backpedalling, all met with a wolfish, teeth-grinding smile.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	It would seem, by the way Bercilak fights, that the answer is 'both,' when it comes to questions about his armor. She finds that answer quickly, too--when her gravity pulls his axe and interferes with its balance, he bellows a laugh and surges forward--into her spear. The tip finds that harness, and the hum it emits grows louder. The metal bends around it, more like a memory foam than the alloy it clearly is. More concerningly, however, is when her spear slides down the cuirass and strikes him in the waist, drawing blood after piercing the tough bodysuit. He doesn't flinch, and continues his charge to deliver a thruster-assisted shoulder-check to Nephra. Hands spaced along the middle of the haft, he chases this with several snaps of the blunt end towards her midsection, threatening another but instead leaping backwards with surprising grace. Fighting from a slight high ground on the wing of that crashed gunship, he threatens with the axe held by the midsection, the cheek moving in erratic circles meant to bait and defelct an attack. "Wher didst thou ilern to ifighte?" he asks, with excitement brimming in his voice. "Thou'rt craftuous."
Nephra Tangent	It's not an every-day occurance that people willingly try to impale themselves on Nephra's spear. It's even less common that they seem to be entirely unphased and unharmed by it. That's fine, I'll just- She doesn't get the time to react before the high-impact force of Bercilak's weapon crushed against her armor plating, cracking sounds met by mechanical whines as plates shift and twist to adapt to chips and craters left behind. The shock knocks the air out of her longs, and she grins /more/. As Bercilak makes to duck away, Nephra immediately drops her grip on the spear, leaving it embedded in him as he leaps backwards. She circles, limbs click-snapping forwards, tension and pressure flaring in mechanical joints until it releases, and she's catapulted off the ground, with the help of flaring jets. Midair, she answers his probe, while trying to avoid the batting defensive swings. "Oh, you know! Here and there, bar-room fights, schoolyard bullies, violent underground fighting rings!~ Where else would a girl learn this?" Framed by the sun, one could almost make out a distorted twisting double-ring accretion disk of wasteland dust, suspended and swirling as she reaches the apoapsis of her jump. And then intakes scream, the world lurches upwards, and Nephra careens like a falling comet boots-first towards the still-impaled spear, hoping to hit it and drag its dull haft downwards through his flesh, tearing like a knife in meat.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Bercilak chortles merrily at Nephra's response. Probably approvingly, too. He is a more cerebral fighter than his demeanor would suggest, knowing well enough to reposition in the face of how high her ascent climbs. His guard, too, shifts, from holding the head down to keeping it near his center of mass. A trade occurs. Nephra's boot forces the spear down. Bercilak's hands and shoulders drive the blunt heel of the axe's head into her ribs. The excess force of her impact drives him backwards, his back colliding with a rusted, sandblasted hull. It's at this point the wing of the old gunship has had enough, snapping off and sliding down a steep sandy inclinde with the two of them attacked. The Green Knight laughs raucously, tearing the spear forcibly from his leg and tossing it back to Nephra. Charging forward on the sliding, broken-off wing, he makes a feint--a thrust with the blunt eye, only to try and hook her spear in the beard of his axe and yank it downward, following up with a real version of the feint he'd done a moment before. The sliding wing strikes a bombed-out shelter, sending him stumbling off.
Nephra Tangent	Despite there having been a trade, Nephra feels like she's the one who got the short end of the axe-haft. Haha. Her armor reverberates like a ringside match bell upon impact, and her bones beneath feel much the same- paired sensations shooting through metal-grafted neural pathways, causing muscles to shudder and her pupil to shoot dilated. Maybe this is all for play, but who's not down for that? The wing, precarious to start with, turns the arena into a veritable titan's snowboard, but Nephra stays rock-steadfast on it even as it moves and lurches. When her spear is thrown back her way, she pouts. "Aww, what's the matter? Less scared of my spear than what I could do to you with my bare hands, huh?~ Well. Not everyone can be brave, I guess!~" Of the two, she knows she's not the one with room to boast and taunt. It's why she does so. When he comes in, to yank her spear downwards, she makes it easy for him. Gravity swells, her suit's heart screams, she makes no effort to pull the spear back up, and unlike her previous reflexive defenses, the crushing weight fails to let up. It won't let up, not while her reactor still burns. As it slides, even the ruined wing gets shoved deeper into the dust and sand, slowing with a sudden jolt as friction skyrockets. Spotlit at 10 G's. Can you handle the weight? Nephra answers it first, pistons and vice-grip joints crack-clicking like insectoid mouthparts to wind her arm back into a downwards-angled jackhammer of a punch, the clawed fingers of her gauntlet held tight outwards like its very own spearpoint. As the wing collides with the terrain in its thunderous crash, she is'nt ejected, and uses it as her opportunity to try and snag him with her blow. "Can you feel it? Can you feel your blood rushing backward? Isn't it /marvelous/?" She breaks out laughing, unaffected enough to still force her lungs wide and draw air, to still stand upright, to still fight back the black at the edges of her vision.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Raucous laughter rises up from the armored figure, in response to Nephra's taunting. "Nay," he says. "Onli that I am biloven of what thou may do with hit! That I am bihowen to see mo!" He absolutely loves the shit-talk. When, if not now, following a message as brusque as his, would be a better time? He struggles to lift his axe. Servos in his armor whine with effort, and he utters a grunt in shared labor with them. Her punch collides with his armor, deforming it around the point of impact and sending him tumbling down the incline with uproarious laughter. "Verily I can," calls Bercilak, legs splayed out to dig furrows into the sand and halt his decent. "And verily, hit is! 'Tis selde indeed, that I may make batail with one who sothli knoues the joie thereof." The beard of his axe hooks the partially submerged body of a broken battledroid. Bercilak looses a bellow of effort, of exultation, of challenge, fighting against the gravity to pry the droid from the sand--and hurl it uphill at Nephra. "Thou shouldst imete Sylvi," he pants fondly, before charging up the hill, axe held high, howling like a madman. His reach isn't so long as hers, but what he has, he uses well. A rocket-assisted circle-strafe adds axtra force to his low sweep, the beard of the axe moving, slower thanks to Nephra's power, to snare or at least strike her ankle. It's yanked backwards, nect, and he advances patiently, attempting again to chase her down, this time with a one-two-three series of cuts. Hip to shoulder, hands shift, shoulder to hip on the opposite side, followed by a straight 'jab' of the edge towards her midsection, guided by a crisp thrust of his right arm.
Nephra Tangent	As the droid's wreck is tossed Nephra's way, it's easy to guess how it'll arc, especially under the gravity. This aspect of physics, for now, is hers. Tracking it with her gaze, she executes a swift steadying shuffle, and one-handedly catches the robot's remains with an outstretched arm, where she holds it still, even under the incredible weight of holding anything at this gravity. It turns out to not be a wise move, blocking out her focal vision of where Bercilak is as he charges right at her. It's too late to not get hooked. It's too late to not get snared, and pulled into a trip. Too late for a lot of things, but never to pull you down with me. Limbs snap outwards, cracking and creacking under motion, pressure, and physical strain, sparks flying as metal scrapes metal, Nephra's teeth grind against one another as she twists her leg, even as the axe's beard is around it. She doesn't care if it cuts metal, if it hurts more, she just tries to /pull/, maybe it'll come out of his hands, or topple him too. Even if he falls on her, that'd still be a fall. Executing the reaction maneuver, through a teeth-bared grimacing smile, she answers his small talk. "Oh? Sylvi? That's a name, yeah? Who's that? I'm mighty curious!" Distract and smile, twist and roll. Make his bones hurt like yours do.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	A boorish hoot of utter joy flies uphill to meet Nephra, when she catches the droid one-handed. Maybe it wasn't wise, but who is he to judge that? It was cool. He does fall, when yanked. Right on top of her, with the haft of the axe laid up as they tumble such that he can't easily retrieve it. "My ladi," he says proudly. "Thou wouldst liken her wel, and she thou, if this is the strength of thy blod!" The axe is left behind as they tumble on the ground. A rebar finger cracks the visor of his helmet, then pries it off. His wild-eyed grin rushes to meet her, as he attempts a point-blank headbutt. He's no hand-to-hand fighter--the artfulness of the axe is gone with the both of them on the ground. There's no finesse in the way he tries to wriggle free of her, no form to his gauntleted haymakers and superhuman knees. A dangerous, mischievous gleam sparks across his blood-red eyes, and the thrusters on his suit fire, carrying the both of them towards a rusted-out transport and alarming speed. The intent seems to be to smash her into it--and probably himself, as well.
Nephra Tangent	Close quarters combat isn't Nephra's favorite, if she's honestly trying to win, or kill. But this isn't that, right? This isn't warfare, it's a fight. The kind that's a game. The kind that's for fun. The kind that it's all about. The kind that doesn't hurt to hurt in, that doesn't sting to be stung in- at least, not hurt or stung in the ways that aren't just neural lightning and swollen bruises. Bercilak's wild-eyed attempt to headbutt her is met with equal ferocity in just headbutting him first. Skulls still collide, it probably aches and rings more for her, but she took the blow away from him and made it hers. Showmanship, huh? They don't need weapons anymore. Hands and heads and crushing weight are all they've ever needed, and it's good that the pleasantries are finally aside. Picked up, slugged, and placed on an impact trajectory with unyielding steel, Nephra howls, half from pain, half from excitement, and a mathmatically improbable other half from the fact that it just feels /right/ to, with wind rushing by her ringing ears. But a headbutt isn't all she can take from him. Gravity is acceleration. Cutting it away, instantly, from something accounting for it, is the same as it being shoved upwards. So as Bercilak's jets direct for staying airborne, cut it away, back to 1-G, is what she does- reactive momentum from shed weight twisting them around, and giving her just the chance to maneuver so that it's Bercilak, not her, who impacts the transport first.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	The headbutt, perhaps to Nephra's surprise, does seem to affect him more than her, his nose split and mending from the impact. Weight is reversed, and he finds himself put through a rusted metal hull in place of Nephra. The crack that resounds his real, the blood that trickles down his temple too. So is the grunt that escapes him--but though it is a pained noise, it is also one of overjoyed surprise. His back strikes the interior bulkhead as sand streams in, and he barks a laugh, throwing out an elbow aimed at her chest. His eyes burn with admiration as he rises and tears a nonfunctional pneumatic door free of its frame, swinging it wildly. "Verily didst I awene thou wouldst understond," he beams. She Gets It. The rush, the thrill, the simple joy. The door is used as a battering ram. He holds it out, its surface spanning his broad, armored frame, and charges at Nephra, boots clanking heavily on the forgotten, dust-covered metal floor. A beam of sunlight crosses over his green bulk as he attempts to tackle her, to pin her to the wall with the door. To hold his face inches from hers, and behold the wonderful mischief in her eye. "What shalt thou do anau?" "Haha."
Nephra Tangent	Mechanical superstructure and skeletal ligaments creak under the impact of the door's metal slab. Nephra's pinned, there's nothing she can do to prevent that. Her breathing is ragged, only inches from Bercilak's face. Hot breath mixing with dry wasteland air and dust, her ribs barely have room to rise and fall with the pressure encasing her. That's okay. This is how it was meant to go. For a long moment, trapped and cornered, she's still. It wouldn't be amiss to take it as a sign of surrender, or weakness to the point she's lost. But the 'Haha.' comes across to her ears, and her eye /gleams/. Stillness isn't weakness. Sometimes you're just waiting to pounce. "What shalt I do, huh?" Teeth crunch on nothing, muscles scream, oxygen and glucose burnt away until all she's been running on is the impact shattering of near-lightspeed particles in the core of her suit's reactor. "Knock knock." Matter skirting abject oblivion, twisted round and round a singularity until maybe, just maybe, they build up speed to escape, to steal some of its energy, to bring it back and out and shatter in a beautiful, temporary display that they did the impossible. She's always liked that part of it. Metal rips, faster than it takes to realize that the claws- claws made to rip armored convoys in half- of her suit -a suit made to be scarier than main battle tanks- have already cut into the door like a chainsaw through butter. It shrieks as it rips much like clay would, bending and distorting as she pulls the door apart and apart until there's an opening. All in just a few ragged breaths. She doesn't stop there. It feels like ther'es lightning pouring down her spine, as she pushes her suit, strains its core harder, begs her body to let her take just one more part of this. Her claws shoot forwards, hands made to rip and hurt, knowing that the green knight's defenses will let her dive right in and tear and tear and tear.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	This is the most normal. People were meant for this, weren't they? For this electric thrill. For the music of exertion and exhaustion, of breathless panting and strength against strength. He's glad that she liked the joke. "Who is ther?" The door is pulled apart like paper in his hands. He scarcely has a moment to holler his delight before she presses her advantage. Her claws race upwards, and his eyes burn with delight. They dig beneath the tough weave of his bodysuit. The smell of the synthfiber torn through so quickly is acrid and chemical. Something warm and red spills out a moment later, hard-earned but for her tremendous strength. With no door to hold, he instead embraces her. While her claws eviscerate, his armored biceps crush and squeeze, red streaks painting more of his armor by the second. It disappears, and his elbows push her claws deeper, until her suit has given the last of what it's able. "Nau I am toknoue thou art abled of mo thanne spekinge shit," he says with warm admiration. "Muchel the mo." A bloodied hand fondly pats her head. "Bi him that made me," swears the knight, "Thou shalt not be hungred for sporte owhils I lif."
Nephra Tangent	When the pressure around her is no longer the door, or the weight of trying to take just one step more, but Bercilak's arms (despite the intent being to crush her, despite that she'd never say it, and despite being through her suit's plating, it's the first time in far too long she's been hugged), the strength- what little remained of it -starts to fade from her muscles and resolve before it fades from her suit. It could go on without her. The fact that she's the one operating it, for fun, and not for warfare, is where its limits lie. People were meant for this, this kind of fight, but the suit isn't people. But it doesn't go on without her. The fight's done, because he stopped fighting, because he knows she doesn't have more fight in her, just now, and /that's/ why the man is placing his hand on her head, isn't it? Blood stains her hair, and the turquoise is plastered with crimson. Nephra laughs. An honest, boring laugh, the kind that isn't flat, that isn't angry, and isn't caught up in the now-fading adrenaline. It too, fades, however. "...I'll beat you, someday yet, big guy. Haha. You better be counting on it. You better be hoping for it. And also maybe it'd be fun if you said 'pretty please?' for it." A pause, and the faint, tight, wolfish smile comes back across her face. "Thou shalt not be hungred for sporte owhils I lif." A small shift in demeanor, and she pulls away, arms up to the elbow in red. "...While you live? Haha. You planning on that bein' a long time, huh?" Nephra chews the inside of her own lip, lost in thoughts and ringing ears for a brief moment. "...Haha. That's kind of you. Thanks." You let me hurt you like dying wouldn't matter. But.. are you not scared of it? Isn't the fear part of the point? She doesn't put voice to her thoughts, and, smile pulled as tight as usual, it's easy enough to pretend they were never even there.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	"Verily," says Bercilak. Not as some vague pleasantry, but as a statement of fact. She gased out this time, and 'this time' isn't 'always.' Whatever else he was about to say, he's quiet when she continues. His stern expression suggests perhaps he was turning over something profound (or at least, profound to him)--but it shatters with laughter, at 'pretty please.' He lets his amused demeanor hang, for deniably long enough, before firing back. "Yea, verily hit wouldst," he says, with a sly little smile. The question about his life span sees a slight return to a more serious demeanor. He nods, his hand sliding off of the bulkhead as he stands straight up. "Thou couldst verily hath emplaced thy honds withinne mine skul, and hither wouldst be be," he says, pointing downwards with a shrug. "Batail as we foredightened shalt not suffice to quell me." This much he knows for sure. "Concerning hau longel I shalt be lifsom..." He shrugs his shoulders again, and makes an 'i dunno' noise. "'Tis not a thing which I ithinke of ofte," he admits. "Probabli 'til some-bodi quells me. Ha. No esi thing. Thusly, hit couldst be lenger thanne a mortal bi mani times. Oth that, tomorwe." He doesn't seem bothered by it. "I'faith, I yeve not muchel a shit. Rathere wouldst I labour to waste not a dai, to be biloven of lif and al withinne hit." He smiles at her--genuinely warm, before a thoughtful expression takes hold. It shifts into something more mischievous, and he grinningly issues a challenge. "'Twas I that maken defiaunce on thee; forthy shalt the time of oure next ifighte be youres. But hark," he interjects, with an index lifted. "I proposen the leser of oure next ifighte shalt beggen, with 'pratie please.' With a smoldering look in his red eyes, and a sly smile, he adds, on his way out the hole they made, "Per happes thou shalt preve the bet, and hath thy 'sporte.' OU!" He hits his head on the hole and almost falls out. "Fuck."