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Ciaran returns home from the market lightly singed, stinking of smoke, and absent the food he'd set out to buy.
"What happened?" Iain asks, rushing to his side.
"Some middling mage with delusions of grandeur accosted me with a fireball outside the butcher's. I managed to deflect it, but not without casualties. Eggs smashed, potatoes scattered to the wind, and my shirt?" Ciaran gestures disconsolately towards the holes scorched though the fabric. "Completely ruined."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Ciaran says. "Just a little crozzled around the edges. No doubt you'll keep fretting until you've looked me over, so… Here you go" – he pulls the shirt up and over his head – "have at it. Better make sure there hasn't been any damage to your handiwork."
"I'm more concerned about the damage to your skin," Iain says softly.
By now, though, his handiwork and Ciaran's skin are almost one and the same.
Iain's signature flowers cover near every inch of his torso – deep burgundy gladioli to lend strength, holly for protection, and many more besides – forming a patchwork armour of ink and magic. It's helped Ciaran claw his way to the very top of his profession – the best duellist in the kingdom, all told - but that in itself is a danger they never thought to account for. There are many who see it as a challenge, seemingly.
"I know I promised you we’d finished with this, but I think I'm going to have to squeeze in just one more tattoo," Iain says. "A butterfly weed."
"And what good would that do?" Ciaran says, scowling.
"It means 'leave me'. Hopefully, it'll make you practically invisible to people you want to avoid. It's the third time this week something like this has happened, Ciaran. At this rate, we're never going to eat again!"