Chapter Text
Larsa blinks at her, surprised by her friendliness. “Greetings, Penelo,” he says slowly. “What a pleasure to meet you.” He bows slightly, offering his hand out to her to shake, which she declines.
Instead, she giggles, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Wow, talk about posh!” she snorts. Larsa flinches; is his disguise so easy to see through? He wonders. Somewhere in Archades, Vayne’s eyes are glittering with unspoken amusement. “What are you doing in a place like the bottom level of the Bhujerban market?” she asks coyly, raising a blonde eyebrow at him. “It's obvious a cute little noble like you doesn't belong here.” Larsa narrows his eyes at her tone, irked by her infantilization of him. He may be short, and as much as he detests the idea he may also be cute, but she doesn't have to treat like a child. He straightens his body and begins to walk away. He doesn’t have to deal with this degrading language.
“Hey!” she calls after him. He hears her light steps behind him, hardly making a whisper as she catches up to him. “You really think you can handle yourself alone here?”
He says stiffly over his shoulder, “I handled the boy back there just fine.”
Her tinkling laughter comes again. “Not according to what I saw.”
Larsa spins around in the middle of the street. A Bangaa nearly runs into him and spits out hissing curses at him. Penelo rolls her eyes, shouts something equally offensive back, and grabs Larsa’s arm, pulling him off to the side. “What do you mean?” he demands, not even noticing how he had stopped traffic. He thought he had won the fight. He was still alive, right?
Penelo doesn’t answer immediately. First, she pulls him towards a building. Neon lights flash above it, advertising it to be a bar. She pushes through the curtains that act as a door and waves at a few people familiarly. Larsa doesn’t think she’s old enough to be here, let alone him, but she calls out to the owner as if she knows him.
“I’ll be upstairs,” she says. The man behind the counter gives a nod of acknowledgment.
“Where are you taking me?” Larsa asks, equal parts curious and suspicious.
“Relax, I won’t steal your money,” she replies.
Larsa raises a thick brow. “That sounds like something a thief would say,” he mutters. Penelo hears him, and again she gives off that tinkle of laughter. It really is a very nice laugh, Larsa thinks. Nothing like the cold, polite giggles the ladies in court emit, so very much like emotionless robots.
“It is,” she responds cheerfully. Larsa smiles back, unable to help the grin spreading across his face. He’s beginning to feel at ease, no matter if she is a thief or not.
When they’re upstairs, she pushes him into a separate room, closing the door behind them. Computers line the wall everywhere, random magick crystals and books and licenses scattered beside daggers and guns. Penelo points to a comfortable yet worn looking chair, telling him to sit down. After he complies, she kneels in front of him.
“How did I lose?” he asks, curious about the answer.
Penelo smiles. “I never said you lost,” she replies. Her fingers find his injured hand, and he jerks back in surprise, snatching it away from her cool fingers. She... She's trying to touch his hand! “Relax,” she soothingly says. “I need to heal this.”
Penelo’s healing him? He thinks warily. She’s a perfect stranger, and her easy attitude on the streets makes him wonder about her class (which Larsa is a little ashamed of to even be considering. He always lived by the thought that he is no different than the common citizen, no matter how much Vayne laughs at his philosophies), who could very well be a thief eyeing his purse. However... She's been nothing but courteous and kind in the half hour or so that he's known her. And honestly, he thinks, peering into her cheerful gray eyes, how could anyone with a laugh as happy as hers be bad?
Larsa carefully considers before placing his arm in her hands. They’re cool and comforting against the throbbing of his pain. She tuts briefly before closing her eyes and beginning the spell. He watches her pale hair wave in the energy she’s summoning, and he sighs a bit in relief when a white, shimmery magick covers her hands and diminishes the aching thrum in his hand.
“What I meant,” she continues, directing soothing waves of comforting numbness into his hand. “Is that you didn’t handle the situation very well.”
Larsa tilts his head. She purses her lips, choosing her words carefully.
“Number one,” she says, looking at his hand rather than his face. “Only an idiot carries around that much money.”
“How did you -- ?” He begins, wondering how on Ivalice she knew. Had she been following him the entire time?
“Number two,” she cuts him off, lips quirking in a knowing smirk. “Only an idiot goes into an alleyway when they’re being followed.” Larsa sheepishly shrugs at her, to which she merely rolls her eyes. “And number three, you spat on his honor when you gave him the money like that.”
“But I was under the impression he desired my money?” Larsa interjects quickly – honestly, he had been nice, right? Penelo finishes healing his hand, and she gently places it in his lap. He flexes it, and is impressed by her magick skills. There’s no pain left, only a little stiffness that doesn’t even rival an afternoon of signing documents.
“Listen,” begins Penelo softly, still staring at his hand. Larsa watches her carefully. Her cheerful expression is now somber, her eyes grave. “It’s different. He needed to steal it. He knows it’s wrong, and he’s probably ashamed of having to resort to thievery to survive, but he survived on his own strength.” She sounds as if she’s well acquainted with the feeling. Larsa feels his heart ache in sympathy, at her voice suddenly becoming small and weary. “When he lost, he expected you to walk away and let him heal his wounds.”
“I did,” Larsa interrupts, puzzled. He doesn’t understand where he went wrong. Penelo shakes her head at him.
“No, you didn’t,” she tells him gently. “You gave him the money he’d failed to steal with his own power.” Here, her gray eyes flick up to him, eyebrows tilted slightly with sadness and pity.
Larsa sucks his breath in. No one’s ever looked at him like that. Every single face in his life from the day he was born had always been smooth, like a porcelain doll, with every word and expression dictated by a strict court rule. Even his own family had kept distinctly cool masks around him and taught him to do the same. The emotion in her face, therefore, punches him in the heart like one of Gabranth’s well-aimed blows in a sparring match. Larsa’s so shocked he nearly misses her next words: “You pitied him.”
At her words, he comes to his senses and sits back, thoroughly confused. The boy had wanted money, so didn’t Larsa do the right thing by giving it to him? Under Penelo’s watchful eyes, Larsa suddenly feels stupid. Larsa despises the feeling of inadequacy, so he’s determined to understand this.
He flexes his hand carefully. Had he ever wanted something so much, something that someone else had? Well, his every whim and desire is catered to… Larsa frowns, pondering the possibilities… And then his frown softens, as he realizes what Penelo’s trying to tell him.
“I think I understand,” he says softly.
“Oh?” Penelo asks. Her eyes develop a teasing glint, which Larsa is suddenly wary of. “Has our rich-boy had a similar experience?” She obviously doesn’t believe him, but her teasing tone is not insulting.
“Well, not with money, no,” he says, easily brushing aside her taunt. Now that he's accustomed to her teasing, he's no longer angered. Frankly, he finds her refreshing compared to the court nobles. No thinly veiled compliments disguising insults. “But…” he can’t believe he’s about to tell her this, but something about the openness of her grey eyes and the affection in her smile prompts him. “My father’s approval is difficult to acquire, especially with my elder brother above me.”
Penelo’s face is gentle. She takes his hand again, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. Larsa’s surprised by the intimate contact, jumping a little. But she merely smiles at him – a genuine smile, so sweet and open that Larsa just about loses his breath.
“I see that rich-boy is human after all,” she teases him. Larsa politely laughs, still a little breathless. She lets go of his hand, his skin suddenly cold, and Larsa is oddly relieved, though he doesn’t particularly know why. He’s held dozens of noble woman’s hands and kissed their knuckles, had his hand held by hundreds of nobles as they try to curry favor. He doesn’t understand how this situation is any different.
She stands up quickly, now frowning. “What are you even doing here?” she asks, moving onto a stickier topic. Larsa shrugs haphazardly, quickly running through a list of excuses.
“My home life is...” he trails off, unsure of how to describe further. I'm a prince of an empire that conquered your nation is probably not what she wants to hear. I'm the younger brother of Vayne, who is currently in charge of Rabanastre is also not a plausible excuse. The longer he hesitates, the more sad Penelo looks. Larsa quickly turns his face away and taps his fingers on the chair, wondering if she'll pick up on the body language. Maybe she'll interpret it in a helpful way. Thank you, Vayne, for helping me read people, he thinks, sending a silent and somewhat guilty thanks to his brother.
“I understand,” she says softly. “Sometimes, it's easier to be away from the pain.” She puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I'll keep you safe for as long as you need.”
Larsa almost feels guiltier for his small lie, even though he hadn't said a word. Is it his fault if she interpreted his calculated expressions and inferred a situation that never happened, a situation that Larsa had (kind of) manipulated her into thinking? Well, when he puts it that way... Before he can ponder it further, however, someone barges into the room.
“Penelo!” a loud, thick-accented voice complains. Larsa’s skin prickles with recognition. “Where the hell have you’ve been? I’ve been looking everywhere – huh?”
Penelo sighs deeply, rolling her eyes. Larsa peers over his shoulder – and his guess is correct. It’s the stupid boy from earlier, the one who had almost hit Larsa’s limo. He’s just as dark as Penelo, his dark gray shirt daringly unbuttoned to his abdomen, tucked into loose, low-hanging black pants and boots. His eyes widen -- a pleasant, cinnamon brown -- then flick to Penelo.
“Uh,” he begins. “Pen, who’s this puff?”
Penelo coughs, cheeks darkening slightly as she glares at the other boy. “Vaan, don’t be rude to my guest!”
“Oooh,” Vaan says, crossing his arms. “Your guest. Riiiight. So you didn’t kidnap him?”
Penelo blushes even more, her skin flushing even darker. “I did not --! Vaan, not everyone is as boorish as you!”
“Whoa!” Vaan holds up his hands. “Let’s not resort to big words now!”
Penelo makes a low shriek in the back of her throat, pinching her hooked nose in exasperation. Larsa has to fight to hold back his smirk. Vaan finally turns to him, narrowing his cinnamon eyes. “Alright, so who is he then?” he questions. “Some pretentious poet sponsored by the Marquis’ wife? He was funny at least. Or is he like the last one you picked up –“ Penelo makes a warning noise in her throat, but Vaan plunges ahead, ignoring her. “What was he again? What did he say he did?” Vaan pretends to consider, avoiding Penelo's death glare. “Oh, yeah, he said he was a model.” Vaan purses his lips and flutters his eyelashes, and Penelo crosses her arms in an attempt to not hit him.
“Some rich idiot wandering the bottom level of the Bhujerban market with a fat purse,” Penelo says hurriedly, a teeny bit scathing, glaring daggers at the boy. Vaan sputters.
“What --?” He chortles. “You? It’s amazing your throat isn’t cut!”
Penelo tinkles along with his sputtering chuckles, her anger already faded away. “Surprisingly, he can hold his own. Got his hand stepped on, though.”
Larsa quickly shoves aforementioned hand into his jeans. Vaan whistles.
“Not bad…” he trails off, raising a pale eyebrow in question. Larsa realizes his name is being asked. He sputters out “La- Lamont!” in a panic, then mentally kicks himself for the flawed delivery of his lie. If Penelo and Vaan notice it, they say nothing.
“Lamont, huh?” Vaan says casually, crossing his arms and sidling nearer to Larsa. He’s suddenly aware of how tall the other boy his, of the muscles beneath the worn shirt. There’s a scar on his right hand, trailing up his sleeve. Beside Larsa, Penelo shifts a bit, angling her body in a more protective manner, hand on Larsa’s shoulder. “Archadian?” the blonde boy inquires, a bit too friendly.
Larsa looks at Penelo. Her grip tightens, and she gives Vaan a warning glare. “Yes, I am,” Larsa replies strongly. He stares up at Vaan defiantly, refusing to back down. The taller boy eyes him carefully, his face serious. Then his expression relaxes, and he claps a hand to his other shoulder, causing Larsa to wince.
“As long as you’re not here to, you know, terrorize the locals, then we’re all cool.” Terrorize the locals? Larsa repeats in his head, shocked. Why on Ivalice would he do such a thing? Vaan forges ahead while Penelo relaxes, slipping her hand off of him. Larsa’s shoulder is cool where her hand used to be. “You seem like a nice guy, Lamont. A bit naïve, but sweet.”
“Erm,” Larsa says. “Sorry?” Sweet? He thinks. Sounds like something Vayne would call me…
Vaan laughs loudly. “Sorry he says!” Penelo grins with Vaan. “Nah, that’s good.” Vaan rubs the back of his neck, sidling easyily over to Penelo to casually wrap an arm around her shoulder. She gives him a hug, kissing him on the cheek before moving over to a coffee pot hidden among the computers to make something to drink. Larsa is shocked by the casual affection. “It’s very good,” Vaan continues, watching after Penelo, his smile small and sad. “Not many people exist with your innocence, Lamont. Count your blessings.”
Larsa’s almost moved by what Vaan says. Count your blessings. Larsa had never really stopped to think about his place in the world, and how many things he does have. He only ever thinks of what he doesn’t have. He defines himself by the things he isn’t, and not what he is.
I want freedom, and the chance to get away from my life, he thinks. But how many people want my place?
The thought is sobering, and Larsa feels a bit guilty lying to these two. He watches them, the two dark Rabanastrans, with glowing skin and sparkling eyes. They’ve obviously faced a lot of grief and loss, yet their smiles are just as vibrant as anyone in Archades, if not more so. A warm feeling spreads through his chest. Larsa recognizes it as respects.
There’s a pinging sound from Vaan’s wrist. The two stop joking while Vaan groans. “Oh, balls,” he mutters. Penelo smirks knowingly, leather covered hands on hip. Larsa watches with keen interest, wondering what could make Vaan fidget so.
Vaan presses a button on his cuff, which pulls up a holoscreen. An extremely handsome man glares at Vaan from it, mouth twisted up in a dashing frown. His features are perfectly even, his skin a glowing tan. His brown hair is slicked back artfully, and golden hoops line his ears. He looks positively… Swashbuckling.
“Vaan,” he begins, his voice a lolling drawl. Recognition punches Larsa in the gut, and he stares at the man, for he has an accent of Archadian nobility – yet Larsa does not know who he is and has never seen him at court. “We were supposed to convene an hour ago at the Aerodome. Where, in the name of Ifrit’s beautiful flaming ass, are you?” Penelo chuckles a bit at this. The man’s glittering brown eyes flick towards her at the sound of her chuckle. “And Penelo. I always thought you were the responsible one, and yet here you are enabling Vaan with his....” The man hesitates, his pleasantly deep voice rolling to a halt as he eyes the both of them with distaste. “Shenanigans.”
“I’m not enabling him!” Penelo protests, shoving Vaan aside to glare at the screen. “ I just…” she glances at Larsa, lips pursed. At his wide-eyed gaze, she gives a small smile. “Got distracted?”
The man groans on the other end. “Penelo, if I find out you adopted another… chocobo or something, I swear by King Wraithwall’s beard, I will…” he trails off, his voice growlingly low as he mutters profanities under his breath. Penelo’s indignant glare matches the handsome man’s, until finally he gives a disgusted noise. “Just… Hurry up, will you?” he finally continues, waving his hand at the screen. His fingers drip with jewelry and precious gems. “Fran and I are getting tired of waiting for you, and there’s only so much small talk Basch can handle before going ballistic.” He pauses, thinking. “To be perfectly honest, there’s only so much small talk I can handle before I find my hands unconsciously fondling my gun. But that’s a different story.” The man pauses, his eyes narrowing. “And that is not a euphemism.”
Vaan chokes, a most ungodly sounding laugh coming out until Penelo punches him. The man just rolls his eyes before winking out of existence. Larsa wonders if he was supposed to see any of that, and judging from the now mortified expression on Vaan’s face and the sheepish one on Penelo’s, he wasn’t.
Vaan turns to Penelo, whispering under his breath unsuccessfully, “What do we do with him?”
Penelo observes Larsa, her gray eyes distant as she ponders. “We take him with us.”
Vaan laughs brazenly. “Balthier will love that. I’m sure he’ll shoot Lamont if Fran doesn’t wring his neck first.”
Penelo shoves Vaan angrily. “Shut up!” she orders, glancing worriedly at Larsa, as if she’s afraid. Larsa’s actually amused by the whole spectacle. He’s always been the good son, the one who dutifully follows orders and meekly observes. Being the one to cause trouble is refreshing.
Penelo wanders over to him, grabbing his shoulders and gripping them tightly. “Lamont,” she says earnestly. “I will not let them hurt you. I promise you.”
Larsa stares back, searching her face. He’s not particularly worried about being hurt. If he needs to, he can protect himself with some self-defense Gabranth had taught him, or drop his title and promise a grand lump of money in return for his safety. But Penelo promising to protect him is… Touching. Her gray gaze, so open and truthful, makes his chest warm. He’s not used to people like Vaan and Penelo, who are so unlike the snide nobility back home, with the secrets, the currying for favor, the heavily veiled insults. They're so... Pure.
“I believe you, Penelo,” Larsa says warmly, gripping one of her hands. “And I thank you.”
Her wan smile in answer makes his heart putter along. Her hand tugs him forward, and they slip out of the room and follow Vaan, his blonde hair flouncing as he quietly traipses down the steps. Penelo moves just as quietly, just as gracefully, and Larsa hopes he isn’t making too much noise. His poise may be stiff and regal, but he was never too worried about being quiet, before. Just having good posture. He quickly tumbles after the two, hand firmly grasped by Penelo.
They merge back out onto the busy bottom layer of Bhujerba, filing into the crowd with ease. Vaan casually loops and arm around Penelo’s shoulders and she leans into him, slipping her hand into his back pocket. They look like a casual couple enjoying the nice day and strolling through the streets, but Vaan’s eyes scan the people coldly and Penelo’s grip on Larsa is vice-like. Intrigued, Larsa wonders what they could be so wary of, of what they’re hiding from. Every action he’s seen from them so far has positively screamed fugitive! But if they’re on the run, why bother helping him at all? Yet another mystery added to the growing list. Larsa is delighted.
Eventually, the aerodome looms in front of them. It towers over the city, having grown from a small airship port in ancient days to a behemoth of a station, stories tall with airships crawling across its multitudes of floors. Its famous glittering roof, made completely of used magicite, twinkles in the sun, like a giant, blue eye. On its sides, magicite fueled HoloScreens display actors promoting products and current popular shows, while news casters talk about the weather in Bhujerba.
One HoloScreen shows a newscaster, her face serious as she describes the situation in Rabanastre. “Unemployment continues to rise,” her tinny voice explains. “Several riots have broken out recently, injuring Imperial Police. Refugees from the desert continue to filter into Low-Town, fleeing the desert attacks...” Her voice fades as they pass the screen. Larsa ponders everything he heard, and some things just don't match up. Violence in the desert? Unrest among the civilians? But shouldn't the Rabanastrans be happy? After all, Archades is bringing modern technology and such to the city. He shakes his head, clearing his confusion. Penelo gives him a concerned look, but he smiles it away. She grins back, then tips her head to the aerodome.
People stream in and out of the giant archways serving as doors, some lingering to chat and others selling wares and tourist nonsense. Larsa notices one man sidle up close to Vaan, casually looking off in different direction while his hand brushes the back of the boys pants.
Faster than Larsa can follow with his eyes, Vaan had the man's probing hand in a death grip, twisting it hard enough to make the man whimper. With one arm still around Penelo, who's watching without any interest, gray eyes lazily sweeping over the man, Vaan begins to address the would-be thief.
“Hey there,” Vaan says pleasantly. The man hisses, struggling to free his arm, but Vaan's grip only squeezes tighter. “If you wanna pick my pocket, you'll have to be better. Do it faster next time, ok?” He releases the man's grip, who immediately disappears into the people around them. Hardly anyone had noticed the little incident, and the three of them continue on as if nothing had happened.
Larsa's a little impressed. Vaan had seemed a bumbling idiot compared to Penelo, willing to argue with Gabranth (By the gods, Larsa would rather face an army of suitors than anger Gabranth), and his casual way of speaking is misleading. Larsa realizes he had judged him too hastily; when faced with first Larsa, a complete stranger, and then the pickpocket, Vaan had kept his cool both times and made instantaneous and rational decisions. Vaan even gives a casual nod at the guide standing in the entry way of the aerodome.
Penelo and Vaan herd Larsa over to a corner of the qerodome, past multitudes of people and little foods shops and ticket machines. They slip into a room that says Private. Larsa's used to such private rooms and VIP lounges, of course, but he hadn't expected two Rabanastrans to have extravagant accommodations like this.
The man waiting for them inside, however, is another matter.
The monitor through which Vaan and Penelo had spoken to him before did the man no justice. He just exudes charm and charisma, from the tips of his short, slicked back hair down to the toes of his shiny, leather boots. He's dressed in the most artful display of snappy attire, adorned in a Rabanastran embroidered vest, a well-fitted white shirt and black tie, and tight black pants. He looks like a well dressed merchant, but hints of a much more daring man twinkle in the earrings and rings he wears – and the way his eyes roll lazily over Larsa, much like a sleepy Coeurl. Larsa shivers.
“Oh?” the stranger asks, his rich voice rolling over them. “What have we here?”
“Balthier!” Penelo's hand has found its way to Larsa's shoulder, and she grips him so tightly her knuckles are white. She prods him forward until Vaan is standing behind them; Larsa feels rather like a piece of meat being inspected. Nothing new, of course. Much like any other day in court life.
“This is Lamont. I found him picking a fight with some Bhujerban street rat,” Penelo explains quickly. Balthier tilts his head, hands on hips.
“Is that so?” the man named Balthier drawls. “This is a surprise. No wonder you were late.”
“Sorry about that,” Vaan helpfully offers from behind them. He doesn't sound particularly apologetic, though.
Balthier gives a deep frown, bringing one hand up to rub his temple. “Penelo, what were you thinking?” he asks. Penelo flushes, staring at the ground. “You don't even know who he is! You understand that he's going to cause difficulties, right?”
“Please do not blame Penelo,” Larsa interrupts. Balthier's eyes snap back towards his face, an odd expression flitting across his features. Larsa ignores the intent stare and continues. “I requested her aid and she obliged, much to my indefinite gratitude. You should place the blame instead upon me, I implore you. Do not be angry at her simply because she helped me in a moment of kindness.” Larsa bows his head, not looking at anyone in the room. Balthier is quiet for a long minute.
“Lamont, you said?” the older man says eventually, his voice very quiet. Larsa swallows.
“Er, yes.”
“What are you doing in Bhujerba, tiny ser?” Larsa can hear the shiny leather shoes clicking on the floor, walking over till they're in Larsa's line of sight. “Do you not have a rich life, full of plush comforts and wonderful servants and giggling girls and all that nonsense awaiting your return?”
Larsa tilts his head to smile benignly at Balthier. “Did you not have these things of nonsense, as well, when you lived in Archades?” he questions innocently. If Balthier wants to play this game, Larsa's willing to oblige. He obviously has the accent of a wealthy Archadian. Larsa would, if he were a betting man, stake his inheritance that Balthier is more than a swashbuckling pilot. That accent is almost most certainly one of an Archadian of noble birth – very noble birth. In fact, the more Larsa stares at the handsome man's features, the more Larsa feels as if he's met Balthier.
Balthier's expression twists into a wry grin at Larsa's sweet words. “Watch out, the little noble has played the game!” Balthier chuckles lightly, the tension flowing out of the situation. Penelo's hand loosens on Larsa's shoulder, and she joins in as well. “Let me guess,” Balthier says, walking over to a table to pour some wine from the cooler. “You got bored and ran away from all the tutoring, the dances, the incessant power games and politicking and gods, the insulting.” Balthier shakes his head, raising an eyebrow at Larsa. “Archadians have a way with sweetly worded poison, do they not?”
Larsa smiles. “They do indeed.”
“Vaan, Fran and Basch are in the docking area with our cargo if you want to help them carry it aboard,” Balthier tells the boy. Vaan makes a loud and slightly annoying sound of protest.
“You're just trying to get rid of me!” he accuses.
Balthier gives him a look, one that obviously says of course, then waves a hand, shooing him. “I hired you for your muscles, Vaan, not your mouth. Go help Basch and Fran.” The blond boy leaves, grumbling, and Penelo, Larsa, and Balthier are alone. The other man takes a long sip of his wine, calmly observing Larsa.
“Penelo, last week it was a tiny wyvern shooting flames, this week it's an equally tiny Archadian noble spewing silver-tongued excuses,” Balthier sighs, giving her a long look. Penelo fidgets, rubbing one arm and glancing at Larsa quickly, then away.
“I couldn't just leave him alone!” she protests. “If he can't go home, then he would have just been wandering around the streets of Bhujerba. He would have gotten mugged again – at the very least!”
“Penelo, while your compassion is laudable and I adore it, this is extremely inconvenient timing,” Balthier groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “We aren't doing work where we can babysit some noble – “
“Balthier!” Penelo admonishes him sharply. Larsa keeps his face carefully trained into a pleasant smile to avoid breaking out into a grin as he sees Balthier's face melts into one of familiar weariness. “Don't talk about Lamont as if he isn't here! And besides, he's more than old enough to help.” She gives him a quick glance from the side of her eyes, gray eyes twinkling. “And he can certainly handle himself in combat.”
Balthier throws his hands up in the air. “I pick my battles wisely,” Balthier dramatically says to no one in particular. “And I can tell this is a lost cause.” He straightens his cuffs, fixing his haughty gaze upon Larsa. “Fine, bring the little noble along. Maybe we can return him for ransom after we're done dropping off our cargo.”
Penelo grins widely, her aggressiveness gone in an instant. Larsa's pleased as well; this adventure is quickly becoming a much larger and much more complicated one than he originally planned on.