12.10.3013: Idiotic Girl
Summary: Jor runs into Klaudea and disparages Sir Thalo, then asks her questions which she chooses not to answer.
Date: 20 October, 2013
Related: None… yet.
Jor Klaudea 

Gym Volkan, The Crescent
There are plenty of advanced weight lifting machines in Haven. This gym doesn't have a single one. Instead there are racks and racks of dumbells and barbells, punching bags hanging from the ceiling, and two roped-in sparring rings. Small racks near the sparring rings hold protective gear so that sparring doesn't result in broken bones or concussions. One wall is formed entirely of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, one has the entrance from the commercial district, the third has entrances to changing rooms for men and women, and the fourth is a window overlooking the gray and red expanse of Volkan.
10 December, 3013

One of the things about getting back into shape, is reconnecting with one's former routine. It took him several weeks, just to see if his body even remembered how to move, despite being physically active during those fifteen long years away from his otherwise normal life. After that, came the alterations, the random adjustments, and various assorted feats of physical conditioning all designed to remind his aging form that even a man in his forties can be in excellent shape. With the fact that the War was in full swing, the invasion of Hostiles a confirmed fact and more, it was all the more imperative to regain his edge.

That in mind, Jor is currently engaged in demonstrating to whomever cares that he can perform pushups, rapidly, with his knuckles, and for quite a few reps as it turns out. He's clearly been here a while now, if the state of his glisten skin is any indication, engaged in an intense exercise session he picked up over the InfoSphere. Dressed down to little more than something to cover his torso and his legs without being indecent or scantily clad, the sharp hiss of air escapes his nostrils rapidly as he all but flops to the mat on which he exercises before pushing himself back up with his calloused digits.

The weight bag in the corner has been seeing some action, from a girl in a sleeveless tunic and light, loose pants. She began a bit gingerly, testing her right hand with a few punches, and looking at it a couple of times afterwards. After the first series of combinations yielded no pain, she gave a little half grin and began to work in earnest. She's slowed down, grabbing a towel to wipe down the solid arms that are almost at odds with the round, friendliness of face. Draping the towel over her shoulders, she loosely curls her fingers around it as she turns a curious scan about the room, to see what others are doing. The old man, of course, requires a bit longer glance, as he's mostly outnumbered by young jocks strutting their stuff.

And quite honestly, Jor does and doesn't care about the young jocks strutting their stuff. His rolling of the eyes is subtle, and rather disguised through the majority of his own personal maintenance. Plus, this isn't a good time for proving just how easy it is to remove the pedastal on which they think they stand. The end result is that he eventually dismisses "the boys" from his mind, ignoring their self aggrandizing and instead directing his eyes around while he also takes a moment to cool down. One can only do so many pushups before one's muscles build up enough lactic acid to require rest. So it is that his attention focuses on you, and immediately a brow launches upwards on his forehead, well aware of the gaze you direct to him as water is consumed in gusto. Jor says nothing to you, but his eyes and body language say plenty: What?

Caught looking, Klaudea stands a little more to attention, but she gives a shrug that replies, "you tell me". Although there is definite curiosity there is also what, in some circles might be considered weak, an open friendliness in the response rather than belligernce or aggression. She's a bit shorter than most of the people there, and if it weren't for the bared arms that have definintion of muscle, she would look completely out of place. As if the drinking of water is a reminder, she glances to find her own bottle, loosening her grip on the towel to unscrew the lid.

The silent exchange of words through body language continues, the 'old man' offering a slightly narrowed glance at your wrist. A faint hint of disapproval of some sort: a brief thinning of the lips, a suggestion of a frown, the twitch of his brows towards each other, all of it given and gone in the space of a heartbeat. He'll continue his self-awarded break in open study, expression turning neutral save for the slight narrowing of the eyes in obvious, unashamed study of your features. Then, finally, a slight tilt of the head towards your sparring bag.

There's a slight pause at the flicker of disapproval that flashes across the man's features is noted, and she doesn't shrug it off, but she doesn't seem perturbed either. She finishes her water and puts it down, the towel joining it as she flexes her fingers. The wraps on her hands covers any scars they might have. At the tilt towards the bag, she sweeps the hand closest in an invitation for him to use it if he is wishing to do so.

"Not today." Two terse words are given to you as his means of introducing you to the bass that is his voice. "Keep going." Dark eyes remain focused upon you, not seeming to find the wraps too out of place - he's used them himself in this place multiple times, after all. Water refills his lips once more, the man staying at a respectful distance as he rehydrates.

Her brows draw together perplexed as he waves off the use off the bag and gives her the order to continue. Without a shrug or a nod, she returns to her stance, a breath expelled to steady herself, and then she begins again. She runs through the basic combinations without self consciusness, she doesn't seem to be bothered by strange eyes assessing her performance. After the basics, she begins to improvise, going for longer combinations, and beginning to include knee and leg strikes, her breath coming in puffs and concentrated grunts. Her technique show years of training, she isn't just a weekend boxer.

And now he begins to watch in earnest, though his expression - unknowingly to him, it's a habit now - stiffens slightly, those lips drawing down to a frown in truth. Jor says nothing, but rather stands at a distance in relative silent, folding his arms with one hand still holding onto his nearly emptied vessel of H2O. He watches, he studies, he frowns, and most of all he remains silent. Not a single word passes from him, but rather that critical gaze as though he had plenty of ideas that /would/ be given voice, if he were of a mind to.

Klaudea's assault on the weight bag continues a little longer, until her arms start to tire. It's longer than most who attend a gym would spend at a bag, but probably not long as long as she normally would. With a bit of a grimace, she shakes out her arms, and then reaches for her towel and water again. She takes a good, long swig, before she sets the bottle down, and begins the process of unwrapping her hands. The man seems to have been forgotten, it isn't until she's loosened the first wrapping that she glances around curiously.

"Not too bad," comes the bass voice of your observer, still regarding you as though he intended to pass sentence here and now with score cards and forever consign you to a given rank of proficiency based on that assessment and that alone. "A bit insincere, though." He doesn't explain that choice of words, either, that brow of his lifted up again as he absently brings up water to his lips one more time, clearly awaiting a response.

There is the first feminine gesture of the day as the girl tips her head to the side when she looks upwards face the huge man. Her right hand is the first to come out of the wraps, and she flexes her fingers. She spares a glance down to the scar along the outside of it, before she shakes it out. The scar is thin, appearing to have been made with a scalpel, and will probably fade almost completely away over time. Now that her right hand is free, she takes a step and offers it. "Squire Klaudea Blackfells," she offers an introduction first of all. "Thank you. Unarmed was the first discipline Sir Urik taught me." One corner of her mouth pulls up. "Mostly to work my strength up towards being able to even pick up a weapon. I was a bit scrawny when I came to him."

Jor may be of imposing stature at times, but he knows all too well that there are people in the system, particularly in the Volkan region of Imperius, that outclass him. To say nothing of his current employer's husband. Refolding his thick arms, he listens, but his expression does not change once, until you start explaining the genesis of your training. There, you get a profound twitch on the right side of his mouth, a grimace, before the water is brought up for the last time, the bottle drained completely save for those lingering, abandoned drops. "Not the approach I would have taken, I think. Better to have you in the basic condition necessary for the rest of your training first, than start you off and assume your body would adjust.

"So, a squire are you? To this Sir Urik. Why is he not here overseeing your training, or is he indisposed?" With the way he speaks that last question, it might as well be a demand.

There's a tightening of her jaw as Klaudea looks down to her left hand that is being unwrapped. "Sir Urik fell in the ambush at Spikka. His commanding Knight, Sir Thalo, has taken over my training." She pauses, her jaw tightening further, but she doesn't say anything more as she jerks her wrapping the rest of the way off and then begins to roll them up.

"Did he now? How interesting." The words that bass offers are suddenly suffixed with a smile, though a hard one despite the fact his face warms in overall amusement. "Quite a noble thing for The Wall to do, but my question remains unchanged all the same: where is /he/ at, with regards to your training? I certainly have not seen him here overseeing, instructing, refinine, praising, or punishing with regards to it, as the circumstance necessitates. How irresponsible of him; I didn't expect that."

The disparagement of her knight brings up Klaudea's shoulders. "The irresponsibility is on my shoulders, Mr- "her voice trails off, and she gives the owner of that bass voice a look that he hasn't given his name, yet. "I was not available when I should have been, and stepped in where I wasn't supposed to be. I put my own life and the lives of others in jeopardy. I am on probation until Sir Thalo decides if I am worthy of continueing."

That brow arches higher, and something changes in this man's face. There's a harder cast to his expression, now, mirrored in the sterner tone that suddenly erupts from his lips. "What did you do, squire?" Scarcely blinking, his eyes stare, locking onto your own even as his arms drop to his sides. If the earlier critical gaze of your sparring with the bag was that of a judge, he face and eyes have clearly now moved on to the role of jury, deliberating on the verdict.

Keeping her voice even, Klaudea's gaze remains level and doesn't flinch from the stare. "That is between myself and my knight, goodman," she replies. One bandage is rolled up, and she turns to set it aside, picking up the other one to roll up. "It is up to me to keep myself fit now that I am released from the infirmary until I have earned his respect again."

There's a sound that erupts from this man's mouth. The jury finds you guilty of one unstated charge, if the 'tch' of disgust that responds is any indication of his sentiment. "You'll find, squire, that I don't give two fucks about that kind of privacy, especially when you've already made it clear exactly what kind of 'unavailability' you had: you got yourself into a bit of trouble that required you to be lying around with a medic attending, or you'd have not needed 'releasing' from an infirmary. So stop trying to fuck with my intelligence and answer the question. And you can be sure I'll have a word with /Sir/ Thalo about /alacrity/ in that regard, as well."

At the eruption, Klaudea's spine stiffens, but she finishes rolling her bandage before she replies. "Mister, you have not given me your name when I offered you mine. I am not inclined to mess with anyone's intelligence, but as you continue to keep yourself a stranger to me, you have my blessing to report any and all of this conversation to Sir Thalo in whatever capacity you are reporting to him." She moves over to her bag to deposit her towel and wrappings in it before zipping it up. She pulls one of the straps over her shoulder, unconsciously scratching at the itch of her new scar. "Good day, Mister," she inclines her head respectfully to the man before she moves to take her leave.

"Stand your ground, squire!" The command to halt barks out of his mouth and no doubt calls attention from the increase in volume, even if it wasn't yelling. He pauses there, counting out an actual two seconds before adding, coldly: "Is this what Sir Urik and Thalo both have taught you? Disobedience? Or is this some rebellious streak that no one's seen fit to evict from you yet? Did the rules change suddenly, where a squire ignores orders and gets away with little more than a slap on the rear for bad behavior? If you were mine, /squire/, you wouldn't be one anymore with the bullshit I'm seeing. I'd have made sure no one would want you after I discharged you, because I would have made it very clear you didn't have your heart in this. And that, squire, gets you fucking /dead/."

"And who am I disobeying, goodman," Klaudea asks levelly, having stopped but not turned to face him. "A commanding officer? A knight?" She turns around, and though there is a spark in her eyes, it does not fan into flames. "I am /not/ yours to command, nor yours to answer to. As a stranger, you have no right to make any demands on me, to command me, or threaten me. If you wish to recommend to Sir Thalo that he discharge me, as I have said, you are welcome to talk to him. Good. Day." She turns around once more, and she is not turning back to any command from the man.

"Idiotic girl," he replies, more a digusted mutter than directed to you, but he doesn't pursue after you, nor try to call after you again. Those eyes watch, though, all but drilling into you from behind, the disapproval clear and present in his features as he observes your departure. In the end, Jor gives a shake of his head and a long exhalation through his nose. He doesn't take his leave, however, filing the altercation away for another time and, eventually, returning to what he was about before this all began.

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