The two of them said nothing for a silence that felt as if it lasted for years. They clashed with invisible swords, the crescendo of their combat resounding in neither the ring of steel nor the trading of sharp words, but with a pair of steady gazes, neither willing to back down.
Hate was a strong word. It was often misused, either in jest or hyperbole. It was rare when one could say they harboured genuine hatred for another individual. Perhaps this instance was merely exaggeration, but Nero felt as if he hated Roen with every fibre of his being, even as they engaged in a silent contest of wills. With every ounce of determination, he held nothing but loathing for her.
There was safety when hidden away in cynicism and indifference. Within that corner, Nero had been secure. He held few expectations that could be dashed. People were tools, even as he played himself to be their friend. The world's cruelty was a harsh truth, but at least there was no uncertainty. Life was fleeting. Emotions were worthless. What mattered in the end were results, for history remembered only the victor.
And yet this mewling paladin, this simpering girl who had no business picking her own dresses, much less wielding a sword, threatened to pull away that familiar cover. Roen seemed to try, perhaps almost desperately, to rip through the veil he had cast around himself. Nero's enmity became an inferno, yet even so, he could not truly tell if he despised her for it, or...
At last, the smuggler shook his head, breaking his gaze. He let out an exasperated sigh. "I do not know if I find your hopeless idealism infuriating or refreshing," he conceded, a tone of clear annoyance--cloaking just the tiniest bit of relief--making itself known in his voice.Â
Nero waved a dismissive hand. "I see that I cannot convince you otherwise. Believe, then, what you will. I expect you will be responsible for however your faith rewards you, in the end."
Roen, that maddening woman, merely responded with a smile. "Now you know how I have felt about you all day," she returned idly. The comment seemed to stun him, as he raised an eyebrow, slipping back into an amused expression, his usual mask. It was impossible to tell that the two had just been arguing just minutes before. His mind still held many questions and smoldered with some anger, but for now he managed to shove such thoughts to the back.
"To a lovely woman such as yourself, I would certainly hope that the 'refreshing' outweighs the 'infuriating'." A small wink accompanied Nero's comment. It was a juvenile thing, perhaps, attempting to disarm her through flirtatious behaviour. He was fully aware of the contrast between the mundane comments they traded now and the intense glares they had just been giving each other.
The paladin's response was to blink before clearing her throat and returning to picking at the trout on her plate. "This...is good fish," Roen commented rather awkwardly.
Gauging from her reaction, Nero supposed that she did not do well with flattery. That would have to do for now. "Finish when you'd like. I will..be outside."
The doors creaked as he pulled them open and stepped into the crisp, evening air. Dusk had begun to fall on Ul'dah; the refugees in Pearl Lane had begun their nightly scrounging.
The smuggler inhaled deeply before letting his breath out slowly through his nose. It was still rather warm, but nothing close to the oppressive heat that beat down on them earlier in the afternoon. Stepping to the side, he faced the wall and raised his fists. It would have been lovely to have a sparring partner to work out his frustration and stress, but practise would have to do for now.
"One...two...three..." Three lightning quick jabs--left, right, left. The air responded with slight whff noises as his fists shot out like arrows. Such practise was simple, but cathartic. Vail had taken the time to teach him some proper boxing form.Â
"One, two, three." A jab with his left, a cross with his right, and a left hook. So engrossed in his practise was Nero that he failed to notice the paladin step out of the establishment, her eyebrows raised as she examined his form. "One, two, three," he said under his breath, repeating the combination.
Nero's muscles had begun to protest with the sudden exercise; he hadn't deigned to stretch and he had been mostly sedentary all day, but he ignored the presence of soreness and continued throwing his fists at the air.
Hate was a strong word. It was often misused, either in jest or hyperbole. It was rare when one could say they harboured genuine hatred for another individual. Perhaps this instance was merely exaggeration, but Nero felt as if he hated Roen with every fibre of his being, even as they engaged in a silent contest of wills. With every ounce of determination, he held nothing but loathing for her.
There was safety when hidden away in cynicism and indifference. Within that corner, Nero had been secure. He held few expectations that could be dashed. People were tools, even as he played himself to be their friend. The world's cruelty was a harsh truth, but at least there was no uncertainty. Life was fleeting. Emotions were worthless. What mattered in the end were results, for history remembered only the victor.
And yet this mewling paladin, this simpering girl who had no business picking her own dresses, much less wielding a sword, threatened to pull away that familiar cover. Roen seemed to try, perhaps almost desperately, to rip through the veil he had cast around himself. Nero's enmity became an inferno, yet even so, he could not truly tell if he despised her for it, or...
At last, the smuggler shook his head, breaking his gaze. He let out an exasperated sigh. "I do not know if I find your hopeless idealism infuriating or refreshing," he conceded, a tone of clear annoyance--cloaking just the tiniest bit of relief--making itself known in his voice.Â
Nero waved a dismissive hand. "I see that I cannot convince you otherwise. Believe, then, what you will. I expect you will be responsible for however your faith rewards you, in the end."
Roen, that maddening woman, merely responded with a smile. "Now you know how I have felt about you all day," she returned idly. The comment seemed to stun him, as he raised an eyebrow, slipping back into an amused expression, his usual mask. It was impossible to tell that the two had just been arguing just minutes before. His mind still held many questions and smoldered with some anger, but for now he managed to shove such thoughts to the back.
"To a lovely woman such as yourself, I would certainly hope that the 'refreshing' outweighs the 'infuriating'." A small wink accompanied Nero's comment. It was a juvenile thing, perhaps, attempting to disarm her through flirtatious behaviour. He was fully aware of the contrast between the mundane comments they traded now and the intense glares they had just been giving each other.
The paladin's response was to blink before clearing her throat and returning to picking at the trout on her plate. "This...is good fish," Roen commented rather awkwardly.
Gauging from her reaction, Nero supposed that she did not do well with flattery. That would have to do for now. "Finish when you'd like. I will..be outside."
The doors creaked as he pulled them open and stepped into the crisp, evening air. Dusk had begun to fall on Ul'dah; the refugees in Pearl Lane had begun their nightly scrounging.
The smuggler inhaled deeply before letting his breath out slowly through his nose. It was still rather warm, but nothing close to the oppressive heat that beat down on them earlier in the afternoon. Stepping to the side, he faced the wall and raised his fists. It would have been lovely to have a sparring partner to work out his frustration and stress, but practise would have to do for now.
"One...two...three..." Three lightning quick jabs--left, right, left. The air responded with slight whff noises as his fists shot out like arrows. Such practise was simple, but cathartic. Vail had taken the time to teach him some proper boxing form.Â
"One, two, three." A jab with his left, a cross with his right, and a left hook. So engrossed in his practise was Nero that he failed to notice the paladin step out of the establishment, her eyebrows raised as she examined his form. "One, two, three," he said under his breath, repeating the combination.
Nero's muscles had begun to protest with the sudden exercise; he hadn't deigned to stretch and he had been mostly sedentary all day, but he ignored the presence of soreness and continued throwing his fists at the air.
