@akyoubas asked: “well, you’re only about…two hours late.”
“You.” Llednar unsheathes his blade -- fingers clutch tightly to the hilt of his sword, fiercely gripping as his knuckles whiten in rage.
He points the knightsword at Marche with a fury in his eyes. Tch. No wonder he hadn’t trusted the invitation. This was, after all, the person he was made to destroy.
And yet... something differs here. Something is off. This isn’t Ivalice, after all -- At least, not the Ivalice he knows. The reason he’d been late -- he was a sore thumb in a town like this, wielding a large weapon around -- he didn’t look right here.
The cold winter air feels so wrong on his skin -- snow, gently falling onto his fingers and the blade that he points at his foe. But as he shakes, is it his anger--? Or is it the cold causing him to tremble?
“What have you done?” Whatever was going on here -- it was clear the reason he’d ended up here was the foe in front of him.
... The only reason he doesn’t immediately attack him, is that he knows nothing about this environment -- and though he blames the other, surely, his enemy is familiar. “Give me one good reason not to slaughter you where you stand.”