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There is a man mountain (six foot four, eighteen and a half stone of solid muscle and cynicism) sitting in half armour at a table, wondering if he can muster the energy to get rid of the rest of this damn metal. He really should have left the second ogre to his men, all things considered, but they were busy and he does have a reputation to maintain.

(Besides, taking on such big immortals solo is going to really piss off Jon, and Raoul has been taking a particular glee in annoying his old friend and king of late.)

One of his shin guards apparently decides that it is evidently going to have to remove itself, since its wearer is clearly not up to the job, and eventually detaches and rolls away from him across the bar. Raoul heaves a sigh, eyeing the offending piece of armour with a baleful fatalism.

...Nope, not moving. Not yet, anyway.

(But probably willing to talk.)

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Noriko is sitting slumped in a chair at the next table over, forehead resting on the polished wood and a sling-and-cast-and-bandages trio on her left arm. There's a grounding bracelet around her ankle, which is more or less working to keep her from being so...sparky.

"You're shedding," says the blue-haired girl, tilting her head to look at Raoul when the shinguard comes to a stop against her foot.

"I'm afraid so."

He offers the girl a very wry, very tired smile. "I did once have the ability to wear this clank all day and most of a night, but unfortunately that was about fifteen years ago."

And feels like about a century ago, at this stage.

"Better than me," she says. "Never worn armor. Had a uniform, it got cut off me." Because no way in hell was her arm coming out of that without a lot of shrieking on her part.

She still looks like ten miles of bad road, so...that comment may make more sense than it might otherwise. "Going to take the rest of it off?"

"Eventually, I expect."

He really ought to get around to getting a squire, one of these days. Although Mithros knows if any boy would be fool enough to want the endless work a job with the King's Own would entail...

Hopefully, "Perhaps, if I'm lucky, the rest will fall off me too."

"You could shimmy it off." She's sick and feeling awful, forgive the shallow dry humor.

"Is it that hard to take armor off?" She's never tried it; her armor is either bulletproof latex and leather or metal that fits together like a jigsaw puzzle. "Thought it was all buckles and--" And here we break for a minor coughing fit, which with the feeling of the entire Sonoran desert in her eyes accounts for the majority of the miserable-ness. "Or maybe I'm wrong, who knows."

He snorts. "I will report that remark to my commanding officer, just to see how long he laughs."

And by 'commanding officer' he means the king. Whenever Jon gets done sulking, anyway.

"It's a two-person job, generally speaking. And the dress armour is worse, but no-one's ever managed to make me wear that yet."

Give Jon time, though.

"What happened to you, kid?"

Edited 2013-09-25 00:52 (UTC)

"Tell me how that goes. I could use the humor."

Kings, congressmen, soldiers...they're all sort of blurring together for her at this point. And rebels, and hell, herself half the time. Noriko's not sure whether it's that the X-Men keep changing sides, or that the sides keep changing around them. "Closest I've come to helping anyone put on armor was getting my little brother into baseball shin guards."

She looks down at herself, and her mouth moues up. "Uh...it's kind of complicated. I...had a pretty big hand in bringing down a building with me in it. Not the greatest idea, as it turns out."

"Ideally, you want to do that from the outside," Raoul recommends dryly.

"It's not as much fun when you can't watch the destruction."

Personal experience? WHAT personal experience?

"Next time I'll remember that," she says with a dry huff of an almost-laugh. If she actually laughs the coughing starts up again.

The next time will hopefully be never, but the way things go in her world she isn't counting on it. "It wasn't really intentional, though. I kind of like not being in casts. Or on drugs."

"I've heard rumours about the latter being fun, but as a figure of authority I'm told I should recommend against it."

His eyes are dancing, but his straight-face is pretty damn good.

"The former, however, are never any fun at all."

He is a dreadful, dreadful patient. Genuinely the worst.

Gavroche picks up the errant shinguard, looks at its owner for a moment, then brings it back.

"I think this escaped."

"They do that," he agrees wryly. "Eventually."

He takes it from Gavroche, anyway, and sets it on the table next to his grape juice. "My thanks."

He is far, far, smaller than Raoul, and very aware of it without any actual fear.

"You're welcome. And you look done in. Hard day?"

He's a big lad, true enough - and aware of it. But he's self-effacing, too, and mild enough that he acts like a much smaller man than he is; and though he has presence, and can command, he saves it for when he needs.

"They're all hard, kid." He grins.

"Join the army, they said. It's glamour and shiny armour and young ladies throwing roses in the street, they said. And then they laughed and laughed, and I never did realise why until it was too late."

He loves it, really.

Edited 2013-09-25 00:45 (UTC)

"Well, at least the armour's shiny", he says with a grin in return. "Not a career choice I'd make, though. I'm Gavroche."

--Oh, yes, introductions. You'll have to forgive him, Gavroche: too much time in the rain has sent his brain mouldy.

"Lord Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie's Peak, at your service," he tells him, offering a hand roughly the size of a dustbin lid to shake in lieu of standing. "I'm afraid you'll have to forgive my not getting up to bow."

It's not an etiquette people here appear to have much time for, anyway.

"Already forgiven", he says easily, shaking hands and then sitting down. "Pleased to meet you, my lord, but I don't know those places. Are they on Earth?"

"...Well, they're on my Earth. But we may not be from the same one."

Oh, Milliways. You're so eternally confusing.

"My country's called Tortall, if that helps at all."

"It doesn't. I've never heard of a country called Tortall - but I suppose it might have been established after my time."

"Perhaps, but I think I doubt it," Raoul says, with a glance at Gavroche's clothes.

"Different world, I suspect. Mine seems to be separate from that of most here, on available evidence."

"Most people here are from Earth", he agrees. "Not sure why, the Landlord seems to have a preference."

"Well, if the Landlord isn't from Earth, perhaps humans count as aliens? I suppose."

Though he sounds somewhat doubtful.

"Nobody actually knows who or what the Landlord is. It could be God, for all we know."

"Well, I wouldn't put it past the Goddess, perhaps."

He tips his head, considering.

"It has similarities with what we're told of Mithros's Halls, but those are for warriors only - and dead ones, at that. But are we even sure there is a Landlord? I mean, I've never seen any evidence of one."

This is far too much thought for the kind of day he's had. Ah well.

"We're not sure of anything", Gavroche says cheerfully. "But something's in control, unless it's all just completely random."

His smile turns crooked, a little impish.

"Are you saying this place isn't completely random?"

"It seems like it sometimes", he agrees, laughing. "But something's choosing, and mostly choosing humans or... almost-humans."

"Or," Raoul counters, "It just so happens that humanish people massively outnumber non-humanish people in the universe and it's all just a matter of odds."

"...hm. Maybe that's true, across the multiverse. There's got to be some where Earth species are all alone, after all..."

"Maybe," Raoul agrees.

"But I'm just a soldier-boy, so who knows?"

"Soldier-boys know a lot more than some people give them credit for. You must've seen a lot of your world."

That's quite a large piece of metal. Freya eyes it for a moment, because it looks like it presents quite a tripping hazard. And Freya is nothing if not interested in the public safety, naturally.

Her interest has nothing to do with the giant armored man and how interesting a story that has to be.

{ooc: telepath, thoughts or not, authentic Freya experience, etc.}

His thoughts are not particularly numerous, at present: he's sort of replaying a mediaeval battle in his head, but mainly his thoughts are just that weary blankness of the very, very, very tired.

"I appear," he admits, in her general direction, "To be moulting."

"You're holding up well," she says, encouragingly, before gingerly picking up his armored piece. "You'll have a new set of armor soon at this rate."

Wryly, "I'm sure the royal quartermasters will be overjoyed."

Jon might actually hit the roof of Balor's Needle over this one. I suppose I should be concerned...

"It doesn't bite, I promise," he adds. "Although it is somewhat... battle-scarred."

Lois can't help but eye him. She may be in the throes of heartbreak--no thanks to you, Oliver Queen--but she knows a good-looking man when she sees one. And he's definitely her type, all tall and broad-shouldered. Broader than Oliver's, actually, and a little taller. And built more like a tank. Not many guys around her look like that.

(Actually, there's one. He doesn't count.)

Of course, the armor doesn't entirely hurt. She's had enough of snug-fitting leather to last her a lifetime (she thinks), but military upbringing definitely left her fond of men with a little fight in them.

The shinguard falling off, however, makes an eyebrow go up. "I was always under the impression that was supposed to stay on."

He glances up, a little slower than normal, and offers the stranger a very wry smile.

"Well, it stayed on for long enough to stop me getting killed," he tells her. "Which is probably the most important thing."

King Jonathan may have a differing opinion, when the messengers get back to Corus.

"Almost the most important thing. Staying on to stop you from getting killed the next time's pretty important, too."

She tilts her head at the shin-guard. "But we don't use plate armor anymore, where I'm from. Is it easy to fix?"

"Ah, but I have someone take care of that," he assures her.

The question gets a shrug. "Define 'easy', and define 'fix'. If it's dented it'll be sent to the nearest halfway decent smith's to sort out. Or do you mean is it easy to put on?"

"Either or," she shrugs. "It's something a few hundred years past for us, and I skipped a lot of my history classes." And a lot of her other classes, actually.

"How much does that weigh, anyway?"

"A lot," Raoul says, helpfully - and not without feeling.

"You get used to it, though. As pages they have us wear weighted vests, to build the strength up."

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