nexus_sages | (no subject)

[Before I tag in: Ver's got a truth-sensing curse stuck in her that she can't turn off. She knows when people are lying and she can see through illusions; she doesn't know what the truth is or have psychic powers. More details here. If you don't want to deal, let me know, I know it can get annoying. Especially with some characters.]

[Oh snap. Iago is in fact the least honest person ever, so he'll definitely send up all the alarm bells. It probably won't necessarily be any one thing he says that she'll catch as a lie (since everything he says is weighed and calculated), but she may get the sense that the tiniest most inner part of him is looking out from behind his eyes, totally detached from the rest of him, and is always evaluating people and things and words as tools or resources, constantly trying to figure out how best to use them or filing them away for use later.]

[No worries, she's from Marvel 616 and was invented to be Loki's best friend. Loki. God of Lies. Her life has been weird.]

Verity's watching the newcomer with a touch of bewilderment. English was never her best subject, and having to translate her own fucking language is a little bit annoying. And not only in the usual way. But given his clothes, she's figuring he's either an escapee from Shakespeare in the Park or from some Shakespearean time and place--she'll give him the benefit of the doubt and go for the latter.

Not that he doesn't have plenty to take issue with when he looks at her. It could be the pink hair in its riot of Viking braids, or the fact she's wearing a black tank top and black-and-white striped sailor shorts that leave more skin exposed than would be considered acceptable in smallclothes. Or it could be the tattoos. Really, she's just a riot of reasons to assume she's trouble.

It wouldn't be a half-wrong conclusion.

"I much prefer the peace and quiet to the fighting. I've never enjoyed the fighting as much as some people." Certain people, it would be safe to assume from her tone. "You?"

Edited (I can talk good :P) 2016-08-13 19:58 (UTC)

Luckily, she's not the oddest thing in the Nexus, and Iago long ago concluded he must be dreaming, when he saw the first dragons and animal-people wandering around. Pink hair aside, this wouldn't be the first time he's dreamed of scantily-clad abrasive women, so for now he'll take it in stride, since those dreams always seem to end well.

"You are yourself a soldier, ma'am? Your country must sore lack sons, if they send their ladies off to war." He's not scandalized or anything -- just takes it to be another oddness of the people here, like how some are casually floating around above their heads.

"I am of the latter kind," he says. At least that's a true thing. "The field has shaped me these years as a smith at the fire shapes steel. I am for one purpose, and to be set aside in times of peace is to gather rust, to need whetting. But that's my sadness, eh?"

Not being the oddest thing has always been a reliable veil against unwanted attention for her. What's one brightly-colored hipster with a magic curse in a place like the 616? (It's also made accepting this new home of hers much easier.) But if he's going to be looking to her for that kind of happy ending, he's going to be sorely disappointed.

It's so hard for her to not snap back against the misogyny in his statement. There's a lot of 'he doesn't know better' being repeated in her head like a mantra. It's only going to work for so long, but it's a start. "Where I came from, people cared more about abilities than what kind of body someone was born in. Besides, you ever see anything scarier than a mama bear protecting her cubs?"

She gives him a brief but genuine look of empathy at the admission. "Being at loose ends is never fun. Maybe you need to find something to do with your free time."

Yeah, not having even a great education by even sixteenth century standards, his grasp of gender politics is a little backwards. If race or religion somehow comes up, Verity is going to have a fantastic time.

"Aye, but how do you mind those necessary duties that bolster up the peacetime world that soldiers die for? If a lady and her husband are gone from house, does not the fire go untended, the bread unmade, the pantry empty, the children reared up dumb and cold and thin?" He pauses, "Or are you lady of some standing? You have servants to mind all? I am but such a one myself and serve another, my means are but poor and I am rude of speech. With no outward show of grandness, I presume all are of such base birth as I. Forgive me lady." He bows low. His whole sense of self was based in the hierarchy around him -- damn this world, from which he couldn't discern the people of quality from the chaff -- and he did not like the thought he may have shown undue rudeness.

"Perhaps. We find sport where we can to while away the idle days until we're called again." Another true thing.

How fantastic a time they'll have will probably boil down to how much he's willing to learn and how long she can keep her patience. With Ver, there's usually only three outcomes: love her, hate her, or pretend you never met her.

She had been planning to answer those questions, but then he had to go and bow, and so instead she's giggling. It's unintended, honest! But it always strikes her as odd that anyone would do that, and especially to her. Plus, she's American; she doesn't go in for that sort of thing. "I'm sorry. Um. I'm not anyone special, you don't have to do that." Her tone suggests she's close to begging him not to, for both their sakes. "As for how I get everything done... I don't have any kids, and I'm good at getting things done. That's the price of being independent, you have to learn to do for yourself."

Somehow, she gets the idea she'd rather not know what some of that 'sport' is. Or where he's thinking she might figure into it. "That isn't quite what I meant. Nothing wrong with idle amusements, but it can be nice to have something to do that gives you a sense of purpose beyond being a soldier."

Oh, certainly he would learn. He would be fascinated, although he would think whatever she was saying was about as applicable to his life as whatever they do on Mars. Foreign cultures were so interesting.

"Ah," he says, and nods. Come to think of it, he has known his share of independent ladies who do for themselves, and has the utmost respect for them. Still, very odd a world she must come from and what a remarkable woman. Soldiering and whoring are both full time jobs, and to do both at once must take an awful lot of time management. It explains all the skin she's showing too, anyway. "Special or not, good lady, course though I am, I am learned basic courtesy."

"And I have my purpose, sure." Iago knows unquestionably who he is and what he's meant for -- he knows what it means to be a member of his sex, his class, his religion and city, his profession... his duties were writ out long before he was born, and he is utterly at a loss for how one finds a thing that gives a sense of purpose when purpose has already been so readily ascribed. "A sword is a sword, and it cannot be a plow or a pot handle. I must merely find how I might enjoy the hours between usings."

His own little hobby just happened to be completely destroying people physically and emotionally... it tended to get you outside more than spending all your time at your books, or in the church or the alehouse.

When in Rome. Although, that would oblige her to play by the local rules if she ever went to Venice... good thing she's not much of a traveler. She'd never survive biting her tongue so much.

It may be basic courtesy to him to bow like that, but it's clearly strange to her. She's never had much of a poker face. Then again, the ideas he's getting about her are somewhat less kind than her thinking him strange. But as it seems like he's being polite, she'll let the subject drop with a faint smile.

"Metal can be reshaped," she points out. Glancing over his attire, she'll go out on a limb here. "I think that's in the bible, something about swords and plowshares?" Don't even get the thoroughly modern American woman started on the idea of a caste system or family obligations. Just don't. It's a well-worn rant and long. And loud.

Time in the sunshine and fresh air are good things, but there are better uses of his time, surely. At least, making sure the people he destroys deserve it...

"It is that. Swords shall be beaten into plowshares..." He tilts his head, trying to remember his Bible. What little formal learning he scraped up mostly concerned the holy book. "Yet about the holy land was that verse writ, when the Lord will judge the conflicts of man from Jerusalem. We may abuse our weapons so when Christ himself sees fit to settle our disputes, and we'll have no more need of war." He smiles ruefully. "Yet think I that day is not yet come."

Nope, that would defeat the whole purpose. Only the most virtuous, the most high, the best of men should be his victims. It wouldn't be worth pulling them down if they were already at his level.

Given how many times her world faced Ragnarok, and how much worse happened, it's a miracle she can dredge up even a thin smile to answer his rueful one. She's never put much faith in faith, so the idea of obeying her mother and paying attention in Sunday school was a non-starter. That's at least two sins, right there. Still, being able to quote particularly juicy bits to the hypocrites has its uses, so she's got a few verses tucked away for emergencies.

"Given how much fighting is done in that particular holy land, I find it hard to believe anyone's going to come out of it looking good in the eyes of a 'be kind and love each other' kinda god." Some of the other gods she's known would judge differently, but Valhalla might still not see many new visitors.

Right, why be useful when you can be rotten? Her lack of understanding of that philosophy may be the only thing that's kept her from actually becoming a villain. She's got all the rest of the necessary requirements: tragic childhood, daddy issues, magic curse...

"Is that all there is to God? God is all merciful, all loving, but wrathful. Sender of plagues, destroyer of nations. The Lord is a general of storms and fire, no? So well he hath o'erturned his foes, their soldiers and their women and their children.'Twas he smote the sons of Egypt, the cities on the plains, the Canaanites... even his own chosen did not quite 'scape a heavenly slaughter. Perhaps we are only instruments of His, for his use against His general enemies." As a tool of a Christ-following empire in the midst of a war with a Muslim one, that's more or less the company line. Iago is no blind obedient church goer, and has plenty of thoughts which he keeps to himself, but he can appreciate the drama of the literature, and the way it keeps people in line.

Ah, not much philosophy behind it. Iago could justify his actions with an armload of reasons to himself or others but it may all just boil down to... well, why not?

[I'd like to take a moment and say how much I love that you can keep the dialogue going like this. :D Bravo!]

"I think that's usually the line," she agrees, "that your god is unknowable and all-powerful and we're all helpless and sinners. Seems odd an all-powerful deity would need to push people around like puppets, but maybe he just doesn't want to get his hands dirty." One corner of her mouth is curling up in a smirk while she thinks about it. "It's a pretty good excuse if you think about it. Some other gods ask him what the hell he's doing and he can just shrug and say, 'Oh, well, sentience, you know. Can't be helped.'"

'Well, why not?' is going to be a lot of memoir titles, or epitaphs. She's not quite so far removed from it herself. Certain people can bring out quite the impuslive streak in her.

[Aw, I live in constant fear that it's coming across as too hokey, so thanks, dude! Much appreciated <3]

He shurgs. "Indeed one cannot know God's ways or reasons," says Iago, "But perhaps it is for our betterment, that we are pushed to warring, in lieu of His own judgement. It takes much hacking and hewing with ax and chisel for the mason or carpenter to build a lord's manse, and he loses much of the wood and stone. He may cast it off as rubble and dust trampled into the sod, but that which remains makes a fine house. Perhaps it is so with men with which God builds his Church." By his tone of voice, it is impossible to tell whether or not he believes what he's saying.

Though the God he was taught to believe in may be unknowable and all-powerful, He also has very clear ideas re: sinners, heathens, foreigners, crime-committers... nominally the same God and Christ as your more waffley, toothless modern Catholicism, but it's amazing how emphases on different Bible verses can change through the centuries. The whole being endowed with choice and sentience doesn't necessarily fit into the religion Iago was schooled in. God wills what He wills, and there's not much any of His puny creation can do about it.

Edited 2016-08-18 01:50 (UTC)

[I think you're doing a great job walking the line between authentic-sounding and hard to understand. TBH it's kind of intimidating. :P]

"I suppose that's likely. A sort of winnowing." She can't imagine anyone signing up for that sort of religion, but it seems to work for people who aren't, well, her. Gods know, it's not the first or even the biggest thing about other people she'll never understand. "But does it make you happy, following a faith that tells you it's okay for you to be trampled into the sod?"

Boy, has this conversation drifted off-track. Oh well. He can think whatever he wants about her for her being a heathen and a foreigner and her (lack of) clothes. She'll enjoy the strength of her own spine and her freedom to make her own decisions. Other people can fight for their spots in Heaven and Valhalla and wherever else they want to go for being good little soldiers. Not that she expects her end to be either peaceful or kind, but nobody's ever convincingly promised her better.

[Thanks so much! When I do it for too long I stop being able to tell if what I'm saying is making sense, so I'm glad it's not all incomprehensible! I do love Verity too, btw. I'm not super familiar with her source but she's fun. Poor lady -- trying to talk to talk to Iago about feminism and interpreting religion is like banging your head against a brick wall XD]

Iago cocks his head. What an odd question. It would be as if similarly put to Verity: does it make you happy, believing the universe works by large bodies attracting smaller bodies due to the curvature of space-time? There are some things he merely takes as universal truths, and while may have his tiffs with his Christian God, believe in a cruelty and indifference that runs parallel to His love, actively work against His teachings, question His ways... that there is any other option but to follow Him (or else actively choose perdition by not doing so) is inconceivable. Atheism, agnosticism and alternative religions never made much of an impact in medieval Italy.

"Here, better put: we His soldiers are as arrows loosed by the archer, each one valued though they be lost. Treasured more for their loss, for it is only through burying in the breast of a foe, not returning to the archer's hand, that our purpose is achieved. The loss inevitable makes the warrior greater, and what more might an arrow wish?"

Of course, Iago can talk of good little soldiers of Christendom all he likes, though he very well knows there's no place in Heaven for him. He's always had a deeply embedded streak of resentment against authority -- perhaps willfully destroying good Christians, though also dutifully destroying bad heathens, is merely Iago's way of thumbing his nose at the greatest authority imaginable.

Edited 2016-08-20 18:23 (UTC)

[Aww, thank you! :D The comic run she was in isn't super long, and if you want to PM me your email address I can send them to you if you're curious. And she's used to banging her head against metaphorical walls. The metaphor part just makes it more frustrating for her. :P]

Does it make her happy? Yes, quite. The vast dance of the stars is a thing of beauty in her eyes. Equally true, where she came from, was the idea that Midgard was but one of nine worlds, with Asgard on one side and Jotunheim on another, and that's definitely the place to be. Hers was a world where evolution was real and provable and frequently erratic, where evolution on Earth was being controlled or manipulated by aliens, where someone tried to eat the planet from time to time, where the celestial gods of gods would Sit Above In Shadow and feast on the energies of Ragnarok... she has options, is the point. So many options.

Had.

"That makes sense for most people, but why should an all-powerful being need to become greater?" She knows, she knows it's not going to go anywhere really, but it's not like she's got a huge variety of debate partners. She'll enjoy this while it lasts. It's not like she has to worry about her immortal soul; Heaven was never going to take her and she's pretty sure Hell doesn't want her either.

There's a young woman here, wearing a brightly-colored dress that would date her to, well, a long time ago, even before Iago's time. She's walking by when she hears him speak, and pauses a moment, listening to his question.

"I don't think my blood runs hot at all," Iphigenia says, shaking her head. "I don't like war."

She, of course, died for a war to happen. But the princess has had regrets about her decision (or lack of one) since Aulis.

"No, and why should women like war?" Never mind that he just met a modern lady who is also a fighter -- he's just gonna count that as an anomaly and keep coasting on those comfortable gender conventions he's so familiar with. "It makes widows or orphans of them -- turns their husbands and brothers and fathers to killers, though their victims be enemies of their state and would as soon slay them first. What lady would wish to say adieu to her husband, clear of eye and conscience, and after many months or years see him returned a brute? Or not at all?"

He shakes his head, "My wife does not like war neither. It more becomes a lady to become cold and pale with the thought of bloodshed -- we men are made from fouler, baser, hotter stuff, and should be pitied for it."

Iphigenia frowns.

"I don't pity men," she replies, shaking her head. "I sometimes think they're lucky."

She doesn't mean with regards to war. The princess has become acutely aware of how gender relations work in different worlds since coming to the Nexus, for better or for worse.

"I only mean," Iphigenia continues, realizing that she could have offended, "That they are freer than women in some aspects."

And she doesn't pity herself, either. That would be pointless, she thinks. What's done is done.

"True, perhaps. But mayhap the cost of that freedom is our duty to die for our ladies - in the streets, in common brawls, or dueling which is only the brawl of finer folk. Or else in the battlefield, where the closest a lady needs be is a little token tied to her swain's lance, or a lock of her hair carried about the neck."

He pauses then. "But you speak aright. Women are bound so to the fortunes of their men, their fathers or brothers or husbands... but so all the more should we do right by them," says Iago, the most perfect husband ever.

"I can agree with that, but so few men do right by women," she replies, sighing. "If they knew what we go through, perhaps it would be different."

Perhaps her father wouldn't have led her to the slaughter, for instance.

"Forgive me, lady, 'tis not my place, but hast thou been ill-used? It is my general duty to protect those who have need of it... If I may be of some service."

Of course Iago understands the uncomfortable intricacies of those relations; how a man might do what he wished with all he owned, including his women, and it wasn't always for another to intervene. There was only so much within the bounds of propriety that he could do, would do.

Briefly, he has a flash of his wife; with her tongue and mind as sharp as Iago's own. She was perceptive and close, which he hated and loved her for, and she him. Certainly he knew the uses and abuses women were dealt, for she had no qualms in telling him so, though he persisted in them and she endured. Was he indifferent? Did he feel shame? Was there a twinge of anything in him? Perhaps, perhaps. There's no sign of it on his face, anyway. He merely says, "That is the whole of it. We are base creatures."

Oh, Iago. As if Iphigenia's going to tell you the details of how her father led her to Aulis on a false promise of marriage, and then proceeded to sacrifice her to a goddess he angered.

She grimaces, remembering.

"I have been no more ill-used than any other woman," she decides to say, because it's easier and less traumatic than recounting her final days in Greece.

"But I do not think it is all men," she continues. "Just...some. Unfortunately. And besides, it's better here than back home."

She has rights! And she can wear whatever dresses she wants!

Small victories, she supposes.

Certainly he assumed she would not tell him her whole life story. Still, got to be a man of the people, soldier of the defenseless, etcetera etcetera. At least make a show of it.

"Is it so? I have not long been here. I know not the lay of the ground, nor the ways of people. I am much a stranger, forgive me if I have shown any offense, for I do not know the custom here." If there's one thing Iago hates, it's not knowing. He stocks every piece of information as someone collects tools -- he'll file it away for later using, and occasionally take stock of what he has, throwing out the unnecessary ones and refreshing himself with the most useful, and giving them a good polish. That pamphlet was a start, but he could not even begin to wrap his around what it all means.

"Where is thy home, lady? And wherefore say you it is better here?"

Edited (whoops because apparently I can't read) 2016-08-17 04:56 (UTC)

"My home is Mycenae, in Greece," she replies. "And no, you have not shown me any offense."

She smiles kindly, to show that she means it.

"It's better here because here, people listen to what I have to say, and respect me for it," she continues, lifting her chin a little in what may be interpreted as a regal gesture. "Back home, I was just a princess who did what her father wanted her to. Here? I may not be royalty any longer, but at least my voice is heard."

Where I'm from, a warrior who can't find comfort in peace is viewed as ill, and offered treatment.

*The woman speaking is tall--over six feet--and clad in a bright blue contradiction: though she shows not an inch of skin below her neck, little of her form is left to the imagination; although her clothes are dry, they have a sheen as though wet.*

What about you?

*At least there's no contradiction in how she carries herself. She stands as someone who knows exactly who she is: Ms. In-Charge-Of-The-Situation.*

"Yet a warrior who finds too much comfort in peace is iller. To come again to battle with a body and mind both glutted soft and slow is sure dead. He hath overfed himself on the meat of peace, when hunger may keep him sharp in war."

Oh dear, this even worse than the one with the pink hair. Try as he might, for even Samus is still not the oddest thing here -- and he's almost sure he saw some men and women both walking around completely naked -- it catches him off guard. Though you could barely tell; he is very Pointedly Looking At Her Face. He clears his throat.

"I am hot-blooded. These empty days seem as a dream to me, and they stretch like eons, yet they are gone one by one like smoke, where one cannot mark its certain beginning or end, only that it... fades." It's why he has to keep himself amused. Plan little projects, the progress of which is a sure reminder that time indeed is passing.

((For some reason, I'm reading Iago's lines in James Spader's voice and signature cadence, and it is just delicious.))

Careful you don't burn yourself.

*She tilts her head slightly to one side, looking the Medieval Man over with a measuring eye.*

It sounds like you need a hobby. Or a sparring partner.

((Mmmm, the only thing I'm familiar with him in is Secretary. So I say definitely good choice xD))

"Better to burn than turn the heat to cold ashes. I have needs for that blood fire when next I meet my enemy." He meets her gaze. He's a hard man to read -- on the surface perfectly friendly and polite, perhaps a little tired with hard living but bearing it with world-wary wisdom. But still, there's something else cold in the depths of his eyes -- or no, it's gone. Perhaps it was only the light after all.

"A hobby?" Why does everyone keep saying that? Although they may be on to something. Someone needs to teach this guy chess, and maybe he'd treat real people like game pieces a little less. "I have a few fellows who will spar with me." He shrugs. Though he practices enough to keep his skills sharp and ready, it's not the same.

((His once-an-episode monologues in Boston Legal are a treat, and the deliberate care of his evil in Blacklist is impressive. I may have to check Secretary out.))

The hotter you burn, the faster you burn out. If you don't learn to save that fire, it'll be spent when you need it most.

*Samus knows another predator when she sees one; an ambush-predator, a trap-spinner, to be sure, but she can recognize the signs.*

A hobby. Something to stimulate the part of your mind that craves it, keep your wits sharp and practiced, without exposing yourself to injuries or setbacks.

((Yes, I'd recommend it. Its portrayal of kinky people isn't super progressive, but he and Maggie Gyllenhaal are fantastic in it.))

"I've been at soldiering since..." He can't even remember now. "I'd seen twice seven summers. These turns of languidness between marching are to me as natural as that tide which bears up and casts out our lethal warships, and brings them home again rich and bloody. I cannot remember what it is to be without that fire any more than mine own shadow. It may be the only thing that warms my blood, and without it, my blood and all my other humors would turn icy and choke me til I die cold and heavy as a millstone. Besides, we are not oft marked for long life -- it needs only burn a score of years or less. I'faith should on the field of battle I die, I will loose it in such a conflagration, men will say hereafter 'Didst thou mark a meteor that here fell?' Let it be that way, grand and glorious."

"For should I die in peace, 'twould be poor use of it. There will be naught to mark my passing but some fading cinders; the marks of my ashy hands on all I touched and my sooty footprints wheree'er I trod. War fire too long in port becomes ill spent and we leave a quiet, blackened path through the streets." He grins, and seems to become awkwardly self-aware of how dour his metaphor has become. "'Tis why soldiers so crave wine, that we may quench a little of the hot blood."

"My lady, as I am honest, I excel at the finding of little diversions where I might. It passes the time." You know, constructing elaborate plots to ruin people. The usual.

((Well, kinky people tend to be portrayed poorly in most media, so that's an unfortunate given, but I may give it a look.))

*She gives a low chuckle, her lips turning up in a thoughtful smile.*

Leave a crater when you go? I can respect that. As much as I'd like to die in bed of extreme old age, and smugness poisoning from the knowledge all my enemies are long dead, the more realistic expectation is that I'll do much the same.

*She considers his unhappy musings on peace, and offers a counter.*

The warrior who can't stand peace finds little, and spoils what he has. Put that fire of yours to use in a hearth, when it's not out burning the enemy.

*His boast gets a raised brow.*

Do you, now? What diversions do you find, then?

"That may too much put upon my wife. She is gladder when I can keep the fire outside our threshold much as I can. I would not burn her; it is as fire of musket shot, of spark and powder, it needs consume."

He shrugs -- what do soldiers do everywhere? "I do what all war hounds do -- kennel myself with others of my kind in some alehouse, where we may snap at each other as we please and find libation with a little drink and music," and whoring and gambling, but let's not talk about that shall we, "well away from the ken of decent men and women. For it is in the nature of dogs to bite and loose fleas, and better we keep our teeth and ticks to ourselves and do no harm, eh?"

A fire in a hearth is heat put to good use, not burning the household.

*She lifts a brow in inquiry.*

You don't think decent people can be soldiers, or the reverse?

"A fire in the hearth needs tending, stoking, feeding, watching. It may bite still; hot cinders fly i'the face, an ember drops, an iron let too long in the flames can scar an innocent palm."

Iago pauses. "We are our own kind of decent. We may call a soldier honorable or noble, but at the heart our work is butchery. Butchery well-rewarded, ennobled by scripture or the state. They tell me I am doing God's work, that our enemies most barbarous would make plunder of our own dear country, despoil our women and our holy grounds, but I wager I have seen what the honored citizens and purple-vested holy men have not: the Turk's blood runs as red as mine. And that is my lot, my hunger, to let the blood of men like me."

He taps his forehead. "Think you not this rests in the minds of all soldiers, from the most low infantry to the highest general? We laud each other for how we kill, with what dexterity or courage or wit, but that is merely dressing for the same truth. On our return to the white and welcoming shores of peace, we are changed men. On the battlefield the mask of manhood slipped, and we who yet live saw each other as what we are... base. Dogs. Fit best for noise-making and rutting. 'Tis why we are so ill-mannered."

Then tend it--that's not your wife's job alone.

*The warrior woman from the spacefuture has strange ideas about gender roles and marital duties.*

I call a soldier decent who can pick up their warring spirit with their weapon, and set it down again when they're done. I've seen plenty of gentle, well-behaved dogs, so don't pretend that's an excuse.

Women keep sayings things like that to him, and he still thinks they're the weird ones. He's not likely to change any time soon.

"Not alone, but she if any must endure it alongside me. And as for dogs... gentle dogs have been whipped well, so the urge to bite has all gone out of them. Or else their lives lived so well, on the lap of some lady or beneath the table on the scraps of some lord, that such a life has taken all their teeth. Thinkst thou I needs be better whipped, or be more oft petted by some well-borne dame?" He wouldn't be so crude normally to a woman, but with what she's wearing, Iago just assumes it wouldn't jar her sensibilities.

*She raises a brow, the rest of her expression turning down in disapproval--the gaze of an irritated hawk. It isn't crude speech that's abraded her sensibilities, though, so Iago was right in that judgment at least.*

If you're training your dogs with a whip, then I'd say yes, you deserve a few lashes, yourself. But that wouldn't teach you to be a better soldier, or a better man. It would only teach you to fear me, and most people can figure that one out without a beating.

*She gives him another appraising look, considering his attire and what it says about the civilization from which he comes.*

Do people where you're from not know any lesson but fear?

He shrugs and meets her gaze. Appraising him, there's plenty to learn -- though his doublet is new-looking, it's hard leather. His cloak is well worn, as are his gloves and boots. They're all spotless but have the look of having been cleaned often -- slightly faded after years of scrubbing off blood and mud and dust. There's a rapier by his side, sheathed on a very, very old looking leather belt. It has also seen much use, and has been tenderly well-cared for. On the clasp of his cloak is a winged lion that shines.

"Of you course you're right, madam. It's a wise man who fears all women, they have power over us so. A lady's words alone can oft be well as any lashing of the whip. And no, 'tis not fear that one may learn of a beating only... more that one has a duty. That to stray from it earns pain, but to well serve earns reward. A dog behaved without the lash receiveth praise, and love, and little morsels of our meat, no? Any soldier's outward show of gentleness reflects not an inward sweetness, but rather he's been fattened on the spoils of war and need not bear his teeth until his hunger rise again."

*There are insights to be gleaned from a study of her form, as well, if Iago dares make it. Her physique speaks of extraordinary fitness, and she carries herself with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to a position of strength. It is perhaps not the sort of strength he is used to seeing in women, for her self-assurance has more in common with the soldiers and officers he might know, albeit somewhat less regimented. If he has known any particularly skilled mercenaries, that might make an apt comparison. If she is armed, she hides the fact exceedingly well.*

I wasn't saying men should fear women, I was saying I don't usually need to beat people for them to fear me.

*She gives a slight shake of her head, thinking.*

Do people need to be beaten, where you're from, to find a sense of duty?

A man with long ears and face tattoos observes the man "You're asking the right man. I'm a man who's been through years of war where i came from."

"War isn't exactly pretty, but it was necessary. We almost lost the city to the metalheads back home.. These metalheads are nasty. Big bulky creatures with a yellow gem in their head that's killed.. more than one of my men."

[img]http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/jakanddaxter/images/7/77/Slinger_concept_art.png/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/256?cb=20150123202321 [/img]

The man's mask is in his hands, currently.

Edited 2016-08-14 02:05 (UTC)

"And does your enemy's blood look like yours? Perhaps it is better, when a foe is not of your kind. A man who kills a man knows that he hath killed his brother, but a thing that is more beast than man would sit easier on the heart."

He looks at the... man in front of him. He does look very much like a soldier. There's some kindred spirit in the battle-hardened look of this one that Iago finds agreeable. "But how do you answer, sir? Prefer you peace, or killing your metalheads?"

Erol stood and eyed the man crossing his arms. "I'm used to killing, that is the cold reality of war. However, I'm also the people's champion on the track. One thing i despise more than metalheads is Jak and his pet rat.

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With a journal name like that, I think I'm legally required to be here. :P

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