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Helga dons a smug look—one Lord has known to expect now. "You? Disarm me?" She manages to bite back a laugh. Lord's lips thin. It was a strange idea to propose to the Schmitt, a spar. But she was the only one in the field, and it sounded like a good way to bond as well.
A tilt of Lord's head, an expression of scrutiny falls over her face. "Do you think I can't?" She raises her brows, curious.
Helga finds it in herself to feel a little guilty, it seems. "Well, it's- it's certainly a little hard to imagine, what with your scrawny build, my lord." She sounds much more polite than before after remembering herself. Ah, this is what it's like to be a monarch. But she isn't much of an Avillon resident, in Lord's eyes. So it feels as if there's not much to rein over. She knows Helga's heart is with the sea, somewhere far away. Something akin to mermaids and light blonde hair, a high-pitched voice, a short stature. Perhaps a white beard and a monocle as well.
But a subject daring to call their lord scrawny—was it not a sign that she was not feared? Much unlike the Kartis she first met. She's glad.
Scrawny…
Lord knows her shortcomings, she's much better at being a commander, ordering her knights around the chessboard known as the battleground. She prefers words prior to actions. Her hands are much more pristine in comparison to Helga the Dragon Knight's, even Charlotte's, but she isn't incapable of action altogether.
But scrawny was correct, yes.
"It sounds like you're making excuses." Lord grabs a wooden sword laying around and a dull spear, leaving out her invitation to Helga once more. Another objection and she'll pull away, it's not good to push, really. Especially with a senior. One who once saved the world, at that.
The gear is shabby. A sign that her knights make use of them often, and train diligently. It's reassuring, and she almost thinks about it for too long before Helga grabs her attention.
"Excuses?" An unrestrained guffaw escapes the dragon tamer. As if she were thinking How silly! Lord feels a little silly. "Now you've got me all riled up. You better be ready for my might, I won't be holding back!" Helga pulls her sleeves up. Lord smiles and hands her the spear.
Lord steadies her grip on the sword, her confidence from before plummeting all too quickly. She inhales slowly. It's too late to back out now.
Helga almost has the wind knocked out of her. She sucks in a breath, and takes calculating steps back. Hey, isn't the goal here only to disarm? Is this really the Lord I've worked with for so long? Her eyes are much too cool, when a moment before they looked like they could have contained the sun.
Her movements are reckless, flimsy, clearly lacking experience—but her focus and resolve ring familiar bells in Helga's head, reminding her of old comrades. The bells make her ignorant, and she forgets to assume a stable stance. Something pushes her off of her feet, and she's against the sand before she knows it.
Lord corners her with the wooden sword, planted into the debris near her left ear, whereas the noble's free hand is to her right. "Ah." Helga remembers to close her mouth.
Lord carefully pulls the spear out of her hand, "Can you imagine it now?" She asks, charmingly calm. The spear is tossed to the side.
"I suppose," Helga replies stiffly. She can't recall ever being at Lord's eye level; she's always towered over the monarch. Her smile is much more blinding up close. The sun doesn't belong only in her eyes, it seems.
Lord sits up, straddling the warrior. "You fought well. It's good to know someone like you is on my side." She stands, and lends her hand to Helga. She takes it earnestly.
"You fought finely yourself. Like something from Rosanna's novels. I felt a chill! Seriously." Helga shrugs. Lord doubts that.
She raises a brow. "I didn't know Rosanna read novels." Or had hobbies in general. She was usually berating her or her knights for something.
"Fabricated history," Helga corrects.
"Oh."
"I can't see why someone as wise as Rosanna would be shy about reading, of all things…"
"She sometimes possesses the sensibility a girl of her appearance usually does."
"…I see. Yes, that seems to be the case."
Helga sheds a layer of clothing and hoists it over her shoulder while she put away the training equipment left by others. Lord, of course, helps. In what world would she not? "However did you become so skilled?" Helga speaks up suddenly. "Last I remember, you couldn't even shoot a bow when you were training with Fram."
"…I still can't."
"…"
"But the sword — it's just something I picked up. You never know what could go wrong on the field."
Lord runs her thumb over the handle of the pretend sword. Wooden and smooth. "It's a cruel world. I don't know why I hadn't learnt sooner." A scoff escapes.
Helga has a sort of stupid look on her face that Lord can't quite describe. "Nothing goes wrong when you're in charge, my lord." Ah, That's why.
Lord feels heat engulf her skin, from her chest and shortly rising to her neck, stopping just before her face. "Please don't sound so sure."
"And that sort of statement puts pressure on me as well…"