#{this thread was made before they let us do small font LITERALLY NO OPTION TO DO IT OH WELL XD}

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

yellingmetatron​:

Malak met his interlocutor’s gaze evenly, expression neutral but alert.  He had a decent enough grasp of the Florentine dialect by the this point to judge this ‘Laurence’ as well-spoken.  Good.  He’d been worried he might have to deal with someone who whose conversational skill had atrophied in favor of his sword arm.  Malak had never cared much for a person’s amicability (or lack thereof) as long as there was something like brain behind their eyes.

“I have an idea, yes.  And I certainly hope it’s accurate.  I’ve waded through a lot of cazzata to get to this point, and anyone who can help me avoid more is welcome.”  As was his nature, Malak picked up profanity before any other aspect of the Italian languages.  “Our employer’s proxies have all but put on stage plays celebrating your proficiency as a man-at-arms.  It took them a surprisingly long time to understand I become less convinced by a hard sell.”  He half-smiled.  “But that’s in the past.  Our employer has thus far proven reliable in their judgement.”  He reaches to his own hip flask, and takes a drink– he’s too wary to try anything else on his first night in Florence.  He grimaces as his shoulder twinges. “They expect me to be up and running a studio much sooner than I’d like.  I can’t risk another injury to my arms or hands if I’m going to be working again so soon.  Just giving instruction isn’t enough for the technique I’m to impart, there must be demonstration of movement.  I’d like you to remember that.  They can take my legs, they can take my face, they can even take my eyes– but I need my arms and my hands.  That is what I am as worried about as dath.“

“Our patron has taken the wrong pity upon you, knowing this is not your mother tongue.” there was a certainty to Laurence’s statement, the frown he wore clearing enough to give him a calm, grandfatherly bearing, “There would be no need for such concern if they had informed you fully of the services they have hired for you.”

He broke another piece of a half-eaten piece of bread from the plate before him. A humble bowl of some sort of soup was nearly empty beside it. Behind Malak, two senior patrons groaned, ginger movements as they manouvered their drunk, stiff bodies out of the inn, cursing the day. The lute player gave a silent yawn, close-mouthed, a tick of the jaw as he continued his inoffensive jig.

The Laurence went on, appearing to have turned over the best way to simplify their upcoming period of inseperability, in all its extensive, expensive glory, 

“My half of your contract states that they may bleed on you, bruise you at worst, even traumatise you with their deaths if you are so inclined, but to injure you beyond function my pay is forefit. As is my life. This was witnessed and signed by the parties who will enact punishment upon myself if this comes to pass.”

Laurence gave an acknowledging gesture after a pause, long graceful fingers, well-calloused - reserved even in this, compared the passionate hand movements of the patronry talking around them, “Of course, I am also at liberty to request a change of charge if you make my job unnecessarily difficult. Compliance with planning is cruicial in a mercantile city such as this.”