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"I'm dying."
Making camp is always an ordeal, but especially when none of the others are understanding of his predicament. He's lounged, pitifully, across the bedroll he'd laid down while he watched the other work.
"I'm dying," he repeats, obviously not having been heard the first time.
"I heard you."
"You can't have," he lays out a bit more dramatically, "or you'd have some sympathy for me."
"I have been accused of being a great number of things, but sympathetic is not chief among them." Damian is blackening one of his daggers, the only company in camp while the ladies are occupied foraging for the evening's meal.
He huffs, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on one elbow. "You're a horrid boor of a man."
"That I have been accused of." He finally lifts his eyes from his task, sparing a glance to the dying noble on the ground. "You've caught a little chill, this is hardly your death knell."
"It will be."
"Despair--"
"You haven't earned the right to use my name. I expect your lordship until you can respect me enough to earn 'Despair' back."
"I've had more than merely your name on my tongue, nor do I find you have any authority over me beyond what little tantrums you throw." Regardless, he shrugs and returns to his blackening. "But I'm feeling gracious tonight."
"Give me your handkerchief."
"I seem to recall, your lordship, you saying that my offer of lending this was disgusting and beneath you."
His ears twitch, much to Damian's apparent amusement. He can feel that he's going to sneeze--and soon at that--and he has no intentions of making a fool of himself in front of someone so wretched as his party member. He won't make this easy, of course--when has he ever? "I'm feeling gracious tonight as well."
"Perhaps if we were on a first name basis, I'd consider doing you such a favor. As it stands, this feels far too personal for a noble so above one of my lowly station."
"Damian--"
"Mr. Firethorn, your lordship. One such as myself oughtn't be spoken to so familiarly--they'll think you down in the gutter with me."
The itch delicately unfurls in his nose, like the petals of a flower coming into full bloom. Matters are quickly growing more urgent. "I need it."
"I don't care."
His nose, already blushed a shade of warm magenta beneath delicate lilac, twitches. "Damian--"
"Mister--"
"hdt'sHYUE!" Oh, gods. Disgusting. He brings a hand up to shield the offending view, feeling it drip onto his bedroll regardless. His own handkerchief, long since spent, is useless to him. Damian's, however...
Something ripples in the back of his mind, an echo of something else. His patron's presence. Enjoying the show, is it?
"hdT'SHYUEe!"
It rarely speaks to him--not in this capacity, at least. The meaning of this intrusion, the feeling of his patron curling around the edges of his mind like the fringe on the edge of a cloak, requires little intuition.
What a mess.
He's certain it can feel his bristling demeanor in response, because the wash of amusement that rolls off of it is palpable. Something nearly smiles in the corner of his mind.
"Did you say something, your lordship?"
"Don't expect any defense from me the next time you find yourself in need of a warlock!"
"I expect quite little from you, and yet somehow I'm still consistently disappointed." The bastard hands over the cloth he was using, soiled with walnut oil from blackening his blade. "Consider this my good deed for the month."
That lowlife little-!
He huffs as he accepts the handkerchief, using it to wipe away the worst of the offending mess. "I will do no such thing."
The smile that meets him is one that's utterly sardonic. "Suit yourself...your lordship."