[ Claude would have been willing to broker a deal, is the thing. He would have done it to his own advantage, of course, and would have compromised less than what he was letting on, but he would have done it. That's what he's good at -- words, twisting them to his favour, making the best of a bad situation. But the more Jim talks, the more it becomes clear that whatever the Gnosia has twisted them into has overcome their greater sensibilities and that not only would they not be agreeable to negotiation, but that they took their greater glee in seeing him squirm, like one of those dreadful butterfly displays some lords take to displaying in their office, pins neatly skewering them through the middle.
He runs his tongue over his front teeth, sucking in a breath. If he were back home, fighting in some battle, taking down two combatants, even ones that were professionally trained, wouldn't be a problem. But he's already worn down, injured from previous skirmishes, rusty in true battle, and fighting against friends -- friends that are trained not only better than some of his old combatants, but in ways that he knows nothing about. He can't predict them.
He doesn't bother to speak. Instead, he twists, hand flicking out from underneath his jacket quick as can be, a sharp dagger sailing towards Spock with deadly precision -- deadly precision that he doesn't expect to necessarily land, depending on the other man's reflexes. If it does, it's a bonus. But if it doesn't, he's counting on it giving him enough time to get a head start as he bolts with deceptive speed for a man they have only ever seen amble leisurely along the paths like any other spoiled noble brat, every inch his house's namesake: a deer, darting through the dark woods, its predators in hot pursuit. ]
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He runs his tongue over his front teeth, sucking in a breath. If he were back home, fighting in some battle, taking down two combatants, even ones that were professionally trained, wouldn't be a problem. But he's already worn down, injured from previous skirmishes, rusty in true battle, and fighting against friends -- friends that are trained not only better than some of his old combatants, but in ways that he knows nothing about. He can't predict them.
He doesn't bother to speak. Instead, he twists, hand flicking out from underneath his jacket quick as can be, a sharp dagger sailing towards Spock with deadly precision -- deadly precision that he doesn't expect to necessarily land, depending on the other man's reflexes. If it does, it's a bonus. But if it doesn't, he's counting on it giving him enough time to get a head start as he bolts with deceptive speed for a man they have only ever seen amble leisurely along the paths like any other spoiled noble brat, every inch his house's namesake: a deer, darting through the dark woods, its predators in hot pursuit. ]