The blonde woman at the bar looks back at you, one finely-plucked eyebrow raised. "You're challenging me to a what?"
"A duel," you repeat. "If yer gonna talk about my ship that way, let's see if you'll stand behind what y'say."
"What, by fighting you?" She laughed and slid off of the barstool, surprisingly steady for the number of ales you've already seen her drinking. She must've had one hell of a constitution. "I don't see why that's necessary. All I said was that there was no way anyone's ship could beat mine in a fair race."
"An' I take issue," you say, "so duel me an' show me you ain't just talkin'."
"And I say that if you want me to prove that I'm not lying - which I believe is what you're trying to say - then I should accept your challenge, and we should waste our time attacking each other until we grow bored of it and treat each other to a drink. I'd much prefer to skip to the drinking, thank you."
You stare at her, feeling a twitch in your face that you're not quite sure you can control. "I don't think so," you say.
"Well, if you really want a challenge - because it looks as though you're no stranger to combat, and I've always preferred other pursuits - why not challenge me to a race? I might even let you set most of the terms."
You stare at her. She's a hell of a figure, when she's not slouched over a bar. Curly hair, heart-shaped face, wide hips and narrow waist under her big red coat... and right now she's staring you down, and it's a hell of a thing. If you hadn't had to deal with angry crewmen almost every day of your adult life, you might've been overwhelmed.
"Fine," you say, because you have to admit, you're curious about this Falcon of hers. "A race on the open seas. I'll let you set the startin' and endin' points, just t' show you I ain't afraid of your tricks."
"Tricks, huh?" She grins. "If I wanted to trick you, I'd come up with a better way than that, Captain." And she leans in, gives you a kiss - the shortest and lightest of kisses, the sort that's more a promise than anything else. "Are you sure you don't want to share a drink, have the race tomorrow? I can bring some very nice wine to your ship..."
"Aye, I took ye for a con woman, first time I saw ya." You let the slightest trace of a smile cross your lips. "No way yer gettin' on my ship b'fore we do this."
"Fine," she says. She doesn't miss a beat. "My ship, then. We can plan our route over some wine."
"A'right, then. I'll accept those terms." She'll probably try something, all the same. Maybe she hopes you'll forget all about the race. But you have to admit, there's something intriguing about the woman. "What's yer name, lubber?"
"It's Daryl, Captain Faris," she says, "and your reputation precedes you. I hope it's not overly exaggerated." She turns away. "I'll be waiting on the Falcon."
You shake your head as she leaves. You'll join her, right enough, but you're takin' your own wine. Can't trust a con artist, especially not a lady as winsome as that one.
Challenge (FFV/FFVI: Faris/Daryl, SFW)
"A duel," you repeat. "If yer gonna talk about my ship that way, let's see if you'll stand behind what y'say."
"What, by fighting you?" She laughed and slid off of the barstool, surprisingly steady for the number of ales you've already seen her drinking. She must've had one hell of a constitution. "I don't see why that's necessary. All I said was that there was no way anyone's ship could beat mine in a fair race."
"An' I take issue," you say, "so duel me an' show me you ain't just talkin'."
"And I say that if you want me to prove that I'm not lying - which I believe is what you're trying to say - then I should accept your challenge, and we should waste our time attacking each other until we grow bored of it and treat each other to a drink. I'd much prefer to skip to the drinking, thank you."
You stare at her, feeling a twitch in your face that you're not quite sure you can control. "I don't think so," you say.
"Well, if you really want a challenge - because it looks as though you're no stranger to combat, and I've always preferred other pursuits - why not challenge me to a race? I might even let you set most of the terms."
You stare at her. She's a hell of a figure, when she's not slouched over a bar. Curly hair, heart-shaped face, wide hips and narrow waist under her big red coat... and right now she's staring you down, and it's a hell of a thing. If you hadn't had to deal with angry crewmen almost every day of your adult life, you might've been overwhelmed.
"Fine," you say, because you have to admit, you're curious about this Falcon of hers. "A race on the open seas. I'll let you set the startin' and endin' points, just t' show you I ain't afraid of your tricks."
"Tricks, huh?" She grins. "If I wanted to trick you, I'd come up with a better way than that, Captain." And she leans in, gives you a kiss - the shortest and lightest of kisses, the sort that's more a promise than anything else. "Are you sure you don't want to share a drink, have the race tomorrow? I can bring some very nice wine to your ship..."
"Aye, I took ye for a con woman, first time I saw ya." You let the slightest trace of a smile cross your lips. "No way yer gettin' on my ship b'fore we do this."
"Fine," she says. She doesn't miss a beat. "My ship, then. We can plan our route over some wine."
"A'right, then. I'll accept those terms." She'll probably try something, all the same. Maybe she hopes you'll forget all about the race. But you have to admit, there's something intriguing about the woman. "What's yer name, lubber?"
"It's Daryl, Captain Faris," she says, "and your reputation precedes you. I hope it's not overly exaggerated." She turns away. "I'll be waiting on the Falcon."
You shake your head as she leaves. You'll join her, right enough, but you're takin' your own wine. Can't trust a con artist, especially not a lady as winsome as that one.