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[caditquaestio]

[ It's all misery footage, Caer Glaem in paltry glory: rammed gates, scratched walls, torn stone, upturned soil, roughened up trees. The locket's coverage pauses on each 'tourist attraction' from a high vantage point, briefly stumbling on hands that are exceedingly worn, blistered and bitten. ]

What has... what's... wrought this? How many dead does the court mourn, how many supplies were lost to - to enemy unknown?

[ A pause, then less startled, slightly cold. ]

...how do they wish us to make war upon each other, if they give siege first? Not the finest general, not the most accomplished tactician can devise strategy against Anaximander's unknown. Not Caesar - Caesar, who had little gain from the Gauls without paying the blood price, but at least he knew what enemy lay in wait.

And we? Look here. Remember this next you think the time is nigh to fight well and fight fairly: we are not armed with weapon or knowledge. We are played for puppets, and when our masters go without their laughs, our strings are cut.

[ Muttered. ]

'Lawkamercyme'. Hah. We do not even know what the word means, or who gave it to us for the telling.



[ ooc: ...and lo, a much belated, for RL KO'd, APOLOGIES! wild intruder appears in the Seelie court! He's given up his war declaration in favour of sheer horror at Ariadne's mad interior decorating skillz. Those who'd like to run into a Borgia need but look for the 'worker' who's... probably... holding... the tools by the wrong end. ]

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[caditquaestio]

[ Man doesn't heed dogs barking in his wake. He puts them down.

And this one yaps on.

He should walk past. Leave. The Hawker's scolded, and men who give you words don't give you violence. There is nothing to fear here. He takes the step forward -

- and stops before Ben's hand, bringing his to meet it, palm on palm, finger on finger.

Whispered, then. ]

You tire me.

[rube]

[ben startles. he hates being touched, hates it even more when it's done by someone he dislikes. it's too intimate, the mere brushing of fingers. then, there's liquid. his brows furrow as he glances down and -- blood -- it makes him wince.

swiftly, his hands retreat up and he pivots his right foot behind him to brace himself before he shoves cesare, palms on his chest so fast and so hard that he's glad he braced himself (he would have stumbled back a bit if he hadn't).]

Don't touch me.

[caditquaestio]

[ Red on white, his own blood. The (rare) sight of it is enough to surprise him - no, the dogs, he remembers now - and keep him light on his feet. Too light, as he's pushed about like a rag.

Stumbling back until he recovers balance, he makes for his waist to bring out - what? Cloth? Dagger? Cloth... dagger... cloth... dagger...

Cloth wins. His hand comes away with kerchief, carefully embroidered with thread of gold. A woman gifted it - the excuse is unspoken, but immediate, ready should it be asked. He frowns vaguely at the dead white thing in his hand. No, not 'a woman.' The token is too expensive. Don Lorenzo's own wife, for good service to her man. Better.

And then he holds it out. ]

Wipe yourself [ Grudgingly - ] The fault is mine.

[rube]

[he stares at the kerchief with careful eyes. it's nice-looking, but ben doesn't want it. in fact, he goes out of his way to wipe his hand on his pant leg to make that point. there's nothing from cesare that he wants. he'd never end up using the damn thing, anyway.]

No.

[he brushes past cesare, which is, perhaps, not the best idea since he's giving him so many openings to hit him back, but he doesn't care. being around the guy makes his stomach churn. he's never met someone so fake.]

[caditquaestio]

[ It's a good handkerchief, he wants to defend, feels it between his fingers as if to try it. Good and fine and well-made. The women of his house worked it, and they know their trade, and Ben should have it, he should; not because he deserves it, or because Cesare wishes him to, but because it was offered. He's never been quite refused for such a simple kindness before.

And, insult on injury, the man passes right by him.

He thinks to trip him. Beat him down. Use the dagger for his advantage, call this to an end.

And doesn't, in the end, only whispering as he starts to walk the other way. ]

Very well, sir. Let us not meet again.

[ Else Cesare's cuts won't be the only blood shed between them. ]