aliettite

Flynn shrugs his shoulders, scrunching his nose in a grimace as said bruises twinge still. "I'll be okay. I've had worse." Which he hadn't, but he wasn't about to let this man know that in light of everything else. "Thanks for the talk, I guess. And... could you tell that lady-- er, Rhian-- that I'm sorry, for insulting her training. And insulting her in general. I uh, should probably get home now..." Or at least away from any prying eyes as he tried to figure out a conceivable cover story for all his injuries. "And I don't think she'd want to hear it from me anyways." He'd have much to contemplate for the next several hours, and standing around trying to fill his head up with more ideas when so many were already buzzing around sounded like more headache than help.

He... hadn't thought of it that way. Imagining his own nearly decade's worth of training and practice being dismissed by nature of him not yet being recognized as a man would be incredibly insulting. So, if women were allowed to be warriors where this Rhian woman came from, and she willingly chose to become one like he himself did, then... then that would be disrespectful to dismiss just because she's a woman. Flynn's still pretty sure there's something to be said about the fact that just because women could become warriors and fight with a sword (after all, nothing's physically stopping anybody from doing that, unless you didn't have arms), doesn't necessarily mean they should become warriors. But that was probably beside the point here. "Mmm...Looking at it that way..." He sighs, shoulders drooping as the weight of realization settles itself heavily on them. "Yeah. I guess anybody'd be insulted by someone saying something like that about something they can't change, and dismissing all their practice and training. I'd be pretty pissed too if you said that to me about still being a boy. I...I guess hadn't really thought about it like that."

Flynn takes a long, slow drink from the water skin, grimacing at the lingering soreness in his jaw as he does so. "You're making half sense," he croaks, lowering the skin as he tightens his grip on it absently. "...My knowledge isn't 'incomplete', sir. Outsiders-- er, people where you come from, and people where that woman comes from... you guys just do things differently. I wasn't trying to be rude to her by asking her to leave." He had been deliberately rude with the insult though, that much was true. "It's not like women are banned from the premises or something." He takes another drink, frowning off into space over the lip of the water skin. "But, no man from my village is going to fight a woman with his sword. Like I tried to tell her, it's not done. Taboo. Cowardly. A true man should never willfully strikes a woman with his hand or his sword." Toeing at the dirt with the toe of his boot, he makes a sharp kick towards a small pebble, sending it skitter off a few feet away. "...I don't see why that's wrong. Do people like hitting and fighting women where you come from?" Flynn finally draws his gaze up at Kerr and tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious. "Outside of a battlefield, of course. Self-defense of yourself is different, if you haven't got the choice."

Flynn is stonily silent as he takes Kerr's hand to be pulled back to his unsteady feet, swaying slightly from the aching blood rush that accompanies it. Standing still with a tight-lipped expression and balled fists, he lets himself be looked over by the healer. Not too bothered? He'd almost scoff at those words if it didn't hurt so bad to breathe right now. He probably looked just about as crappy as he felt. Fantastic. A mumbled "...thank you, sir" is all Verdan gets before the boy begins to turn away, making brief eye contact with Kerr and giving a nod before bending down with a wince to retrieve his sword and sheath it. He didn't feel very much for talking right now, but at this point he'd already made so much of a fool of himself, whatever may come later may as well just come now. If he was going to get another lecture from this guy, so be it. He starts to walk off away from the training area, following a trail that leads along the outskirts of the village. The fewer people to see him in this state, the better.

It's pretty clear from his off-balance starting stance that he's not exactly trained to fight with just his fists -- the clumsy movements of his footwork and poor underestimated coordination of his intended strike make his opponent's own strategy practically fall into her hands. The blow from her shoulder manages to unbalance him further, and try as he might to grind his feet into the ground hard enough, the pain radiating from his abdomen from her first direct punch has him curling over more than he'd anticipated. And this woman was heavier than she looked -- especially on top of him in her armor and socking him in the face once more. The arm he raises to block her assault is simply knocked away by the force of the blow and he's left lying there bleeding and panting raggedly beneath her. Flynn had been glad before that he was to be left alone at the training area, but now he was even more grateful to whatever gods decided to bless this place with solitude today. These outsiders may have witnessed this shameful display, but they'd be leaving soon anyways, so at least no one he cared about had to see it. Especially Fless. Especially any of the other boys about to leave on their journeys. Flynn, beaten silly like some dummy for target practice, by a woman. Over something so... Alright, well, maybe he'd gotten carried away when he'd called her 'outsider broad', but he could have apologized for that if she hadn't hit him! She was in the wrong here! Who was she to question the customs of his people like she knew something about anything? But now, honestly, he's not really sure how it could get worse beyond himself either crying or wetting his trousers. Outside of that, this was definitely as bad as it got. But he was't about to say he admitted defeat. She'd have to drag that from his cold, dead tongue. "...Just. Go."

'Balls to fight back' or no, Rhian's fist comes back around at him faster than any witty response leaves his lips -- and this time, it does more than just unbalance him. The combination of his own recalculating weight shift, and the hard impact if her strike directly into his center of gravity knocks him right onto his knees with a cut-short yell. He doesn't loose grip of his sword during the fall, but the reverberation of the metal from its own swift connection with the hard-packed dirt of the training ground loosens his grasp. It clatters to out of his hand as Flynn doubles over, attempting to stifle the urge to dry-heave as he gasps for a breath. Feeling pinpricks of wetness in the corners of his eyes from the effort, he squeezes them shut as he tries to choke out words: "The sword--is-- extension-- of yourself--" Maybe though, in a situation like this, he shouldn't sully such a thing. A man's hands have to be strong enough to wild his sword, right? Then they'd be strong enough to fight without it too. He begins to try and push himself back up to his feet, not picking up his blade this time.

The swing, he'd claim, was aimed less to hit and more to serve as a warning -- but the end result was still to have the blade knocked aside, and Rhian's fist connecting sharply with his side, right beneath the ribs. Coughing, Flynn takes a stumbling step, then another more solid one and rounds on her, drawing his sword out in front of himself in a practiced stance. "Draw your weapon! I won't fight you like a coward unarmed!" It was humiliating enough to be stooping so low as to willingly fight a woman, but to fight her unarmed would be sinking to the depths of river muck. He takes a deep breath, wheezing on the exhale as he continues: "You said you wanted to train like a Village man, didn't you? Then get your real weapon and fight me like one!"

The hot prickle of shame begins to creeping its way up his spine to his ears as Flynn finds himself not only being threatened by this bizarre armored woman, but lectured by this man who seemed to suddenly think he knew everything about warfare, and fairness, and fighting, and being a man of the Warrior's Village. His frown sinks into an unbidden scowl at Kerr as his cheeks flush, hand now coming to grip his sword tightly as his voice rises with poorly restrained indignant frustration: "This isn't a battlefield. This is a training field to hone your skills, not a simulation of actual combat. Of course I'd be able to fight a woman if I had to -- I'd kill one too if I had to! But I'm not going to fight just because some outsider broad thinks she can--" The swift fist connects with his jaw before he finishes the syllable of 'can', sending him stumbling a couple of feet as he's nearly knocked off his own. Staggered, Flynn clutches at his mouth, eyes wide as a startled deer's as he stares at Rhian. She...! Gingerly taking his hand away, he feels at his lip with his fingertips -- wet, blood -- and spits red into the dirt at his feet. "You... you hit me." The dumbstruck deadpan of his statement would probably have been comical if not for the way his expression darkens along with it. He reaches up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, succeeding in not doing much more than smearing the evidence of Rhian's damage across his cheek and glove. Shame's tendrils now coil themselves tightly in his chest, and betray themselves brilliantly across his face. "Alright. I see." Code of honor be damned. This was personal now. "You wanna fight, huh?" Flynn brandishes his sword with a flourish, grip white-knuckled, and gestures towards Kerr with his other arm with a growl. "And you stay out of this."

"It's not a matter of skill or insult, it's a matter of honor," Flynn replies seriously to the newly arrived figure bedecked in full armor, and the other man. He turns back to Rhian, seemingly unintimidated by her display of threatening body language and gestures. He straightens up as if to prove his point of being bigger (and therefore an unfair opponent) than her, leveling down a frown with a touch of a condescending air. "I'm sorry miss, but I'm not going to fight you. You're a woman, and a man doesn't raise his sword to a woman. It's just not right. Why don't you spar with this, uhm, this person." He jabs a thumb in Michi's looming direction. "They're an outsider like you. Maybe they've got the same morals as you too." Or lack there of, really, coming from a land that carelessly sent their women out into battle with their men. Who stayed home to guard the villages? That was just as important a job as a man's, if not more in some ways.

She... No, she had to be kidding with him. Snorting, Flynn just shakes his head with a humoring smile, crossing his arms and resting his elbow against his sword's grip. "Just because you say you're not much of a lady now doesn't mean you can't become one, and I probably shouldn't help you dig that hole deeper, huh?" She was... kinda pretty, he supposes. Maybe without that armor, and cleaned up a little bit, she might actually make something of a fine Village lady of herself. But, even if she wasn't, that didn't make the fact that raising a sword to a woman, or even aiming to strike her, was something a man was never meant to do. Only lowlifes and cowards did that, and Flynn was positive he was neither of those. "Plus, fighting a woman is kinda unfair, don't you think?" Men were just... bigger and stronger by nature. Fighting someone you knew couldn't beat you in something naturally inborn was just low.

With the salve applied after the battle finally doing its work, and the rest of the wounded men of the Warrior's Village handed off to more trained healers, Flynn found himself with more time on his hands and more bruised pride in his heart than expected. The men of the Warrior's Village sure put on a bad show in that fight, didn't they? What kind of men were they if they had to be saved by women and outsiders? Well, the best way to deal with one's problems was to work them out through the oldest method in the book -- hitting things. Preferably hard, and with one's sword. And then, eventually, your problems' answers would show themselves to you. At least... that's what was supposed to happen. Flynn wasn't exactly sure of any problems' answers would materialize that fast, but he was at least certain that swinging a blade would make him feel better. He'd anticipated to be alone at the training grounds, or at least not accompanied by too many other men. What he hadn't anticipated was to be accompanied by a woman. Judging by her crimson armor, she must be one of those people who came in with those female dragon knights. Of course -- she sure as hell wasn't from their village, and if she was, she would know this wasn't a woman's place to pass her time. He'd give her the benefit of the doubt that she just uneducated like the rest of her lot. "...are you lost, miss?" Flynn asks, approaching her as he rests his hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip. "This... isn't really the place for a lady." That was polite enough, right?

No pressure... Honestly, did she have to phrase things so direly? Then again, this was a battle for their lives. Still. And when had he become "Little Bird"! He had a name, and although that name was also coincidentally shared with a small brown songbird, he didn't appreciate the little pet name. But now was not the time to argue semantics (at least "Little Bird" was preferable to "Coward") -- he jogs over quickly and plays a little tune. "I choose to fight. Er, I choose to help you two fight." Move to J24 and bard the frightening sword woman and Marcus!

So he was dismounting? That had to mean things were getting serious. Which they were, and Wren wanted absolutely nothing to do with the oncoming foes even more than he had at the start. Couldn't they just... give up already? There wasn't anything valuable on board save for their individual provisions, but was that really worth ransacking the boat to get? He certainly didn't feel so. If Wren were a pirate, he'd aim bigger -- like a merchant ship or... literally anything else. "Let's get this done." Move to K25 and bard Marcus and Marek.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," Wren mumbles to himself as he makes his way unsteadily across the deck of the boat and over to his comrades, trying to ignore the movement of it beneath his feet. Goddess, the sooner they got off this damn thing, the better -- and the sooner they dealt with these interlopers, the better still. "Finish them off!" Move to I28 and bard Akane & Markus!

Despite having lived his entire life in a country who's main method of transportation was via boats on rivers, Wren had never fully manage to acclimate himself to the tossing and turning of the water's waves -- as such, he's spent the majority of the voyage so far in his own quarters, venturing out only when absolutely necessary (mostly to spare his pride any further injury by having anyone look at him in his current state). However, with the boat currently under attack, as he found when he finally poked his head above deck for the first time, there really wasn't much else he could do other than help. Well, he could always hide, but he's pretty certain that the frightening eye-patch wearing sword woman would personally chop him to bits and serve him for stew if he so much as entertained the thought. Swallowing down both fear and a brief feeling of illness as the boat rocks from another wave, Wren jogs out towards Rokan and Marek, shielding his head with an arm (there had been explosions! he didn't want to get hit by any flying debris or what-not). "G-go--Go get them! And make this damn thing stop rocking so much!" Move to G29 to bard Marek and Rokan!

Wren manages a small smile. "Thank you. And I will." Wait, "yet"? Pushing himself to his feet, he teeter slightly before righting himself fully and heads for the door. "I'm going to catch some sleep then, now that I'm no longer dying of a grievous wound, haha." His attempt at humor... falls a touch flat. "...And I meant what I said, about the apology. So... thank you, Herrman." Making his way back up to his room, he turns in for the night properly, boxing himself in with couple of pillows stolen from the bed and a nearby chair to make sure he didn't inadvertently roll over onto his injury in the night. The last thing he needed was to wake up in a puddle of his own blood from something as stupid as that -- especially when none of them knew what the next day would hold. They were fugitives now, no doubt. Where could they run? He'd never been outside of Sathor before -- why would he want to? the queendom was the greatest country there was -- so he wasn't exactly even sure what sort of places were out there. But he supposes he'll just have to deal with that tomorrow...

The assault on the senses leaves Wren sitting there looking slightly dazed by the time Herrman finishes with her bow. First the prodding, then the examining -- which, although he'd consider himself a fine specimen of a man, still made him slightly self-conscious -- and then that utterly foul smell that nearly had him gagging (if the action wouldn't hurt his wound more), and then the stinging pain that felt like an elfire tome ripping through his chest... by the end of it he barely registers the wound has closed at all. When he does however, he wraps an arm about himself for modesty as he tugs his tunic back on properly, dipping his head in thanks. "Th-thank you Herrman. This was most appreciated." There's a pause, and he clearly looks like he wants to say something. Then he finally does. "I'm... sorry. I want to apologize -- to you, and to the others. B-but since you're here first I... I was, well, I was a damned fool, thinking Lord Leofric was as noble as his birth when in reality he was nothing more than a dog. I should have listened to the boy before leaping to a conclusion like that, and my inaction and fear could have lead to someone being killed." It nearly had lead to himself losing his own life, after all. "I hope to be able to move past this, and right myself anew in all of your eyes."

"N-No it's not-- it's fine, I can manage it on my own, thank you," Wren stammers out with all the grace and poise of a man who's probably never found himself in a situation where a woman of any sort was more than willing to see his unclothed form. Which was entirely untrue, of course. But that was beside the point. Gritting his teeth slightly, he reveals the wound across his chest, and his haphazard attempt at bandaging it up, already soaked through in most of the lighter covered places. "I tried my best, but the fastenings -- they keep untying themselves, and it was too loose and... well... you can see all that can't you?"

Goddess, she was a little forward, wasn't she? Not that he could really complain, all things considered about the position he'd found himself in. Hands coming to the buttons of his tunic, he looks up and her, then back down and away, cheeks slightly pink. "It's uhm, well, forgive me for lack of modesty but it's..." He gestures to his chest before unfastening the garment, still holding it closed before she comes back.

"O-oh, er, good." Shuffling a little awkwardly, Wren opens the door, poking his head in. Even if he had in the end joined the side of everyone else -- the right moral side, even if it wasn't the least bloodthirsty -- he could help but feeling a palpable tension between himself and the others. It was probably self-imposed, but either way, he couldn't quite shake it. He'd made a right fool of himself in the beginning, simply going along with what he'd seen on the surface -- Lord Leofric in the right just trying to get back his lawfully own property (even if that property was a human being) -- only to be brought into the harsh light of reality in the end. He hopes Herrman would at least be kind enough to spare a healing spell or two. She seemed the kinder soul out of the rest of the knights anyways. Maybe he could practice a formal apology to her as well... "I don't mean to impose but, in our last battle, I had been wounded pretty grievously. I'd tried patching it up myself but... well, I am no healer. I was hoping I could ask you a favour of your assistance on the matter?"

"...Damn, not again." Tightening the bandage only seemed to make another part of it fall loose, red starting to soak the white fabric anew. Goddess damn it all! This was hopeless. After the knights made their timely exit from the scene of the carnage (and technical crime), Wren had taken it upon himself to patch his wounds once he'd settled into his room for the evening. It was partially out of want to be alone, and partially to prove to the rest of them that he was tough enough to deal with what he now knew was a non-fatal injury. But... even that hadn't gone according to plan. It seemed like every time he so much as breathed the bleeding would start up again, and by this point he'd given up trying to make the damned wrapping stay in place. Tying the bandage off enough to stay generally in the same location, he gingerly shrugs his tunic back about himself and buttons it up for decency -- not that it was going to matter anyways soon enough, but a man still must have propriety. Time to find their healer... Wren wanders about to the others' rooms, not actually knowing which one the healer in question was located in, giving the doors a knock. He passes by Noah, but cannot keep his eyes on the boy for long. What that poor child had gone through... but he mustn't speak of it yet. Got to fix this first. "Er, Herrman? Herrman, are you in there? It's me, Wren. I uhm, are you busy, per chance?"

Pushing himself shakily to his feet -- clutching his head as his vision swims before his eyes as he rights himself -- Wren wills himself to move, trudging pitifully over to where both Marcus and Rokan stand. He takes a few deep breathes (or as deep as he can, with the pain wound still clouding most of his ability to do much of anything currently) looking between the two of them before bringing his flute gingerly to his lips. One long note plays. "Get--him." This was foolish, this was all foolish, and now he was actively breaking the laws he was supposed to uphold -- but if Wren Cross was going to die, then so help him Goddess he was going to die on a good conscious. Lord Leofric may be a man of noble birth, but he had the soul of a baseborn dog, enslaving a noble boy out of spite and deplorable indecency of morality. A man like that didn't deserve to besmirch his social standing. He deserved to be brought to trial and atone for his crimes... but in this specific case, it would have to be the Goddess herself who passes judgment for his sins against his fellow man. Move to M22 to bard Marcus and Rokan!

Wait... So he had... Sure, the social laws were pretty clear on the outcomes surrounding woman's improper choice of affair -- he had heard his sisters talk time and time again about the importance of marrying well, and even his mother had told him to be mindful of the same thing when the time came -- but to go so far as to force your affections onto another when they were unreturned... And to kill a woman's husband, regardless of his social standing, taking their child as a gladiator.... that was just... Wren is left gaping up at the other man now, his fear shifting now into abject horror and repulsion. How could a man of such high birth and standing act and think so deplorably? Why, these actions were more foul than even those of the lowest dregs of society could muster up! This was a man who shared tables with other noblemen and woman like his mother, father, brothers and sisters! ...how many more were like him? No, surely he must be the only one -- an outlier, a blight upon his class and prestige. That had to be the case. "T-that's vile..." Wren mutters, barely intelligible at this point. "H-how could you..."

But Lord Leofric, it isn't what you think, I'm not a part of this, I am simply doing my duty to protect my comrades, I never wanted to fight you, they are in the wrong-- Whatever protestations could have been said die on his tongue before they leave his lips as the glint of the man's blade catches his eye a split second before the swing connects. He'd seen men cut down in the thick of battle (especially now), and read of descriptions of the experiences one has from the strike of a blade, but neither had prepared him for the agony of what he was experiencing. Crumpling to his knees like a dropped stone the moment the sword in pulled away, Wren doubles over with a choked cry -- voice catching with a wet cough as the intake of breath only exacerbates the pain now radiating through his entire body. He clutches at his chest, hands, wrists, and arms coming away red where he'd tried to wrap them about himself, rising sounds of panic coming instead of words as he tries to find them. He was going to die, he was going to die, he was going to die-- "L-Lord--Lord--" Wren looks up at Leofric, the fear of his imminent mortality clear in his wide eyes as he tries to draw in enough breath to speak. "M-Mercy--mercy--mercy L-Lord--"

Now this was at least something Wren could morally get behind. He doubts very highly that Lord Leofric would have legitimately employed thieves into his ranks, so more likely than not this man was just some horrid opportunist trying to cash in on the chaos without getting caught. As much as he was still unwilling to go any farther against the nobleman outside of keeping his fellow Queen's Knights from dying... the petty thief could go. And would go. "Strike him down!" he calls, jogging over to the pegasus knight and playing a little tune. Move to L21 and bard Elise!