you know, i'm something of an assless chap, myself

"Titan's foot - how can you manage it, Minoth?"

Not expecting to be addressed, Minoth had to break his gait and make a full turn back to where Addam yet lingered above and about the remains of the campsite and fireside, rubbing his apparently sore hind end.

"Manage...what, exactly?" Building fires? Sleeping in contortions, or else like a horse? Waking late and lazy?

Addam groaned again, clearly thinking of characteristic preamble but being yet too preoccupied by his pain to bother with it. So instead, he answered the question simply: "Sitting on these damn stones, every night, day in and day out!" He attempted to stretch, then thought better of it, concluding with despondence, "My poor spine must be a wreck, by now."

"Oh, and of course you know I'm the picture of health," Minoth replied sarcastically. "Never thought I'd live to see you getting old, my prince."

"Well, now." Here Addam smiled with the crows of his eyes even as he winced, making his best effort to ignore the dryly pessimistic comment from the Flesh Eater. "Aren't you just so grateful I'm such a weakling, then?"

"Not a weakling, per se. More that you just don't have the proper equipment." Minoth could be merciful, but moreover he was matter-of-fact.

"Equipment?"

"Padding."

Another groan, but this one awakened in glassly ire. "You've got to be joking."

"I never joke -" Minoth nodded sagely, solemnly "- not about a thing like this."

"A thing like what?" Addam demanded, gaze sharpening a tad in mischief.

"Ass."

"Oh, you are one."

"This is the part where Tornan princes are so gracious, and say, 'Thanks! I try.' But I'm not a Tornan prince, so I'm not gracious. Not my fault the Architect didn't see fit to bless your father, or maybe your mother - actually, probably definitely your mother - with any miracles in the back, there."

"You've only redoubled in measure of a cad, you know."

Minoth's point wasn't to make Addam cross about his...personal failings, his shortcomings and flatbummings and whatever else have you, but he wouldn't deny at least some sense of amusement, that of all the advantages there ever were to have as a Blade, this was one that completely denied combat functionality or a sense of inborn longevity for perennial self-healers (well, for the type of injury that this constituted). Maybe it was below the belt (indeed, only just) to mention Odette, but who was to say Addam had immunity from "your mother" cracks? Only the other kind.

He also wasn't about to offer that Addam sit on his lap, instead, and contemplated some swift dodges around that suggestion, should it be yielded by other parties. Not without its advantages, and yet...

Why not try to change the topic, even if only ever so slightly? "Here, Addam, if it'll make you feel better: all your gifts are right up front, where we can see them. You're not completely without assets."

Addam grumbled. "Do you want my wallet? Is that what you're asking? Is this a grift?"

Oh, touchy, touchy! Certainly, if Addam was in a mood like this, he wouldn't appreciate Minoth making estimation of the equipment possessed by each other member of their adult party, in order to soothe the hackled nerves of one crotchety old man just twenty-five years of age.

It wouldn't help Addam at all, for instance, to know that Aegaeon, on the rare occasions that he sat (had Minoth ever even seen him sit? more crouch, at the waterside for to fish), also complained of sore mechanical parts, squashed tubes and cramped flow. Jin never complained, but Minoth had seen him make some interesting manipulations of his armorskirt on some stones, to aid in some unexplained something that could only be...well. And just imagine how bony Azurda would be, if he were yet a Blade!

Minoth didn't consider the women in this, because that of all things would be foul play (also, they bore no significant data in the study). He certainly didn't consider Flora, in this, because that concerned Addam's front-facing assets and something about their matching statures and something else about top surgery and testosterone, all told.

"No grift - never a word of a grift, Prince! But it is true that I don't have pockets in my...assless chaps."

"Your what?" came the half-acknowledgement from Addam. Oh boy.

"My one-leg-at-a-time, leather-over-leotard assless chaps. Hadn't you ever thought about it?"

"I believe I tried not to," replied Addam, sterner than ever.

"It's the fate of women and Blades alike," Minoth began to pontificate. "No pockets, or else nothing meaningful to hold, or too many things, with the inconvenience of a satchel to hold all our earthly possessions, which aren't many, and we haven't got the gold to buy any more. So, we're lucky to have benefactors, even though, by rights, we should be able to be our own, heads held high and proud."

He waited for reaction, but none came.

"Here we are, put on display by the Architect for the wills of men, with nary a scrap of cloth to our name, which is all we have. Like so many precious jewels, each infinite and infinitely unique in all its facets, but cut carelessly and wantonly for profit and vanity. But we love humans, because humans can wear us, array us well over all the many-splendored features of their lives, which can be enriched in so many unexpected ways by a boon companion."

Still, silence.

"Addam?"

"I've got nothing."

"I know you do."

"Ungrammatical," muttered Addam, but otherwise kept his peace.