Nothing felt more irritating than a challenge. Nothing comes for free nowadays, does it. Of course it had to be something as cliche as 'guess my true name', as if digging up some legal documents or asking a close friend for the answer wasn't the simplest way to go about things. He knew she was trying to get a foothold by making him flop about looking for answers as if it ultimately mattered. He really didn't care. Flynt gets what he wants, and won't resort to playing by the rules to get it.Â
The good Major shook his head, rolling his eyes, giving her the satisfaction of compliance. Sure, he'll do it, and he'll retain his dignity all the same. Humoring the woman was the idea of the date, why be a stuck up prick about it? It was hard to take a challenge in which the magnitude of success and failure was so severe so seriously when the challenger is mewling like a kit over basic seafood. Her sudden generosity didn't help much neither, albeit well-received. It was a shitty knife he was handed by the server, the finely crafted knife P'rita lent over was much better.
It severed the well-singed meat by the bare muscle and meat, a single draw of the edge across the slab was well enough to cut it up and leave it soaking in the bloody puddle of garnish, oils, and hemoglobin. Flynt felt out of place with the combat knife in hand, using a full-fledged weapon at the dinner table is usually something your parents told you not to do. But its not like it mattered all to horribly, a playboy and a refugee are out to dinner in the same world where the economic powerhouse of the country is run by a pink midget and a beefcake warlord actively being undermined by the goddamn lollipop guild.Â
"...It's probably some sort of dip made up of some of the local produce. Summerford, maybe. Beats me." he shrugged, setting down the sizable blade to grasp his seventy gil bottle of water, taking swigs after every morsel consumed by the voracious meat connoisseur. Wine would be an ideal pair, but Flynt is under the constant worry that he won't control himself while drunk, he was tiny, a lightweight. Better not risk it.
"Well, you seem so sure that if I find your name and see to my rightful claim that you are some sort of big catch. All I see is a pretty face and a good talker. Sell me on why I should take time and effort out of my life to want to find something likely buried in the archives of some immigration office-- which would cost me a fortune to get into, by the by. Give me some incentive, what can you do that others can't?" He had faith in P'rita, surely a worthy investment, but it still never dawned to him that something so contrived as a 'hidden' name would be worth it. Determination? Like hell Flynt would put unnecessary effort into something he has hardly any knowledge of. Like betting for a mystery prize, why go all in without knowing what you're getting? It's a fool's errand. He wants foundation to base his investigation; something to sell him.Â
The good Major shook his head, rolling his eyes, giving her the satisfaction of compliance. Sure, he'll do it, and he'll retain his dignity all the same. Humoring the woman was the idea of the date, why be a stuck up prick about it? It was hard to take a challenge in which the magnitude of success and failure was so severe so seriously when the challenger is mewling like a kit over basic seafood. Her sudden generosity didn't help much neither, albeit well-received. It was a shitty knife he was handed by the server, the finely crafted knife P'rita lent over was much better.
It severed the well-singed meat by the bare muscle and meat, a single draw of the edge across the slab was well enough to cut it up and leave it soaking in the bloody puddle of garnish, oils, and hemoglobin. Flynt felt out of place with the combat knife in hand, using a full-fledged weapon at the dinner table is usually something your parents told you not to do. But its not like it mattered all to horribly, a playboy and a refugee are out to dinner in the same world where the economic powerhouse of the country is run by a pink midget and a beefcake warlord actively being undermined by the goddamn lollipop guild.Â
"...It's probably some sort of dip made up of some of the local produce. Summerford, maybe. Beats me." he shrugged, setting down the sizable blade to grasp his seventy gil bottle of water, taking swigs after every morsel consumed by the voracious meat connoisseur. Wine would be an ideal pair, but Flynt is under the constant worry that he won't control himself while drunk, he was tiny, a lightweight. Better not risk it.
"Well, you seem so sure that if I find your name and see to my rightful claim that you are some sort of big catch. All I see is a pretty face and a good talker. Sell me on why I should take time and effort out of my life to want to find something likely buried in the archives of some immigration office-- which would cost me a fortune to get into, by the by. Give me some incentive, what can you do that others can't?" He had faith in P'rita, surely a worthy investment, but it still never dawned to him that something so contrived as a 'hidden' name would be worth it. Determination? Like hell Flynt would put unnecessary effort into something he has hardly any knowledge of. Like betting for a mystery prize, why go all in without knowing what you're getting? It's a fool's errand. He wants foundation to base his investigation; something to sell him.Â
What could possibly intrigue the capricious Hyena into putting this much effort into a simple challenge? Was she an exceptional cook? A goddess in bed? Rich beyond measure? Secretly famous? Immensely powerful? What is there to gain?
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