“I came to thank you,” Kiramman says. “You were of great assistance to me recently.”
Vi shifts where he stands, uncertain how to respond.
“Gratitude. What might that be for?”
“Are you familiar with Ser Salo?”
“Unfortunately,” he says, before he can stop himself.
Kiramman’s unphased by his blatant dislike of a Lord far above his own station.
"Quite,” Kiramman says, no hesitation. “I had a run-in with him, of a sort, yesterday. An unpleasant one.”
"Is there any other kind, when it comes to Salo?”
Another lip twitch. Vi swallows around the realisation that he's insulted a knight—a high-born—in front of another. Twice, essentially. Kiramman doesn’t correct him. For the second time.
“Perhaps it won’t surprise you to learn he is no less tolerable in a tourney than he is outside of one.”
“A tourney.”
“The lists,” Kiramman adds. “Jousting.”
“You’re being literal. When you say run-in.”
“Everyone knows he’s… rather a snake, to put it mildly. Turns out he reinforces the tips of his lances. Lead, it seems.”
“That’s...”
“Against regulations?”
“I was going to say fucked, but I thought it might be rude. Ser.”
Kiramman’s face shifts marginally once more, then settles. Vi feels himself inching closer to actually being able to make him smile. One day.
“I recently found myself on the receiving end of it. Unfortunately.”
“You…”
“Your armour saved my life, I think.”
Vi scrunches his hands into fists, and releases. He wants to shake himself, but that will have to do. Nothing about this conversation—that he’s having it, nor what’s being said—makes any sense.
He looks Kiramman up and down a moment. The shirt, the breeches, the boots. His gaze returns to his face; the composure there, and his posture. His strong jaw, his even shoulders…
His shoulders.
He’s slouching, marginally. Lilting inwards on his left side.
Vi takes a half-step forward.
“Are you injured, Ser?”
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