trans_9 | Coping with your fears.

Sparhawk is feeling grouchy. Grouchier than usual, anyway. With the stirring of the Nightmare King, his dreams are haunting, recalling times that he thought were in the past. And this time, there is no Aphrael to chase away the specters.

Many think the Knight of the Church are fearless, and the Pandions most of all, but if they could have seen Sparhawk in the earlier hours of the morning, soaked with sweat, eyes wide with the memory of the Troll smashing him from the saddle, they would have realised that even Pandions fear.

They most certainly do not have to like it though.

With no-one to talk with about this, Sparhawk had to find his own way of dealing with things. Outside the house of worship that felt most like this own, Sparhawk is setting up a post, made from the remains of one of the wooden benches from the defense of the Vatican.

Satisfied that the post is a secure as he can make it, he kneels in a clatter of armor, and bows his head. It is in this position that anyone approaching will find him.

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Hisk, having successfully introduced herself to the crew as Hannah, has decided that she likes the city. It's wide and open down here, without so much of the congested, muggy feeling of the more closed in living area. Plus, during the night cycle there are stars. Even though she knows they're an illusion, and that she recognizes none of them, it's comforting. The gods always watch.

She's been surveying things from on top of some of the shorter buildings today. It seems there's a man down here, a man in armor. Not any of the bizarre suits she's seen, no, actual proper armor. This merits investigation. She clambers down the side of the building, hopping off toward the bottom and bending her knees slightly to take the impact.

"Hail, stranger!" she says as she approaches. Hisk hangs back a decent distance, curious but cautious.

Despite being engaged in prayer, Sparhawk is still aware of his surroundings, at least not to visibly start when he's addressed. Raising his head, and lifting his visor, he offers a polite smile to the women who is speaking to him.

"Hail, Lady," he replies as he rises to his feet again, inclining his head in an approximation of a bow.

Hisk offers a deep, nodding headbob sort of thing. It's a very outlander sort of thing, by Derunian standards, but it is respect.

"Considerin' how dangerous I've heard tell this creature is t' ride in, why is it you're the only one I've seen with the sense t' get a proper suit a' armor?"

Of all the questions that Sparhawk suspected the lady could ask him, that wasn't one of them. "It seems as though their worlds have passed beyond the need for armour," Sparhawk replies after a moments thought. "Or maybe I am still too backwards," and there is a touch of self-depreciation in the words.

"By creature, do you mean Stacey?"

"Maybe, but I still think it's a bit mad almost nobody's got if we're s'posed to be in a war. Surely they need armor for somethin'." Hisk's fairly comfortable in her assumptions that she at least mostly understands how the world, and other ones, works. She might not always be right, but she's confident.

"And yeah, Stacy. The thing. Big boat woman voice in yer head... thing." She gestures vaguely upward. "Creature's quicker," she adds. "It's hardly a "ship" 'f it's alive, eh?"

"Is armour needed much on your world?" Sparhawk doesn't think she's from his, since she would have recognised him as a Pandion, but it could be something similar.

Sparhawk laughs. "My only experience with ships are wooden ones that stay on the water. Never been on an alive one before. Though it feels strange to call a ship by a name, it would feel ruder to to call something living by it's name. If that makes a bit of sense?"

Sparhawk needs to work on his communication skills.

"Guards wear it. Soldiers wear it. Folk that can afford it and hunt th' things I hunt wear it." She shrugs. "'Course weight an' maneuv'rability's a big problem with that sometimes. I know I couldn' swing it m'self." Hisk relies more on her ability to get out of the way more than she does her ability to endure a hit. She also just doesn't like feeling encased in something.

"I s'pose. She 'asn't really struck me as somebody I like enough t' use the name for yet, though."

Hisk's not sure what she believes as far as the story with the Daligig goes right now. She mostly just resents being pulled from her world and business. This is an interesting place and promises to be a good adventure, but she was busy.

"Hunt the things you hunt?" Sparhawk asks, intrigued. Unless you count the Gendian troll hunting, there's not much hunting to be doing.

Sparhawk's not quite sure what he believes either, but believing them dead is easier than spending a lifetime searching among the other pods. "She hasn't tried to kill us yet, which is a good point. She does seem to care for our welfare."

Sparhawk's not used to being mothered by a voice in his head.

"Beasties. Griffins, werewolves, dragons, the like, they got those in your neck o' the woods?"

This probably explains that spear she's carrying across her back. Probably.

Hisk's not used to anybody caring about her but herself, so it's an odd sensation for her too. It's sort of nice to know that whatever this thing is it's probably not going to kill her, but at the same time the closeness to her mind is creepy. "I s'pose that makes her the least of our problems. Considerin'."

"Just as folklore, I think," Sparhawk replies. "A farmer sees a fox in his field from a distance, and by the time he has returned to the tavern, it has become fifty werewolves. We do have Trolls though, and Ogres. Are ladies often hunters on your world?" He's learnt his lesson about assuming every world matches his own.

"Considering everything else," Sparhawk agrees. "There always seems to be something more important to worry about."

Coping with your fears.

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