[From behind Miles, view obscured by the faceless, too-smooth facsimile of a man, the door closes, and a loud bang can be heard from it. It was as simple of an act as driving a wedge under the door with the hard slam of a booted foot.
Aral regards struggling form. The name he'd caught on chance, browsing through the newly offered network: "Miles Naismith." A laughable title of Admiral appended to a man long since deceased but in his wife's memories and quieter moments.
That would not have been enough if he hadn't seen the conversations, following with increasing ire the claims of the barbaric practice from Jackson's Whole attributed to him.. and enough resemblance to honestly make him wonder. The slander and honest, rolling hatred that came from that odd, not quite familiar face.
He'd simply intended to drag him, bodily, to the local law, lay his charges and see him stripped of power, deception and authority.
But then he saw that flash of gems and steel... Even in the brief moment, he could call its identity. A predatory confusion stretched itself out into a boiling, terrible rage. He stalked forward, using this new ability this world had bestowed to seal a knot on this impersonator's skills, binding them down to nothing as he caught the armed hand and divested it, summarily of the family heirloom.
He made no comment, circling the couch, merely slammed the blade to bury itself almost to the hilt in the coffee table in front of Miles.
With deceptive, sedate speed, he moved a chair to the other side of the table, the dagger - fine, masterfully forged steel still quivering from the forces exerted on it - between them. He found his own seat across from the other man, and waited.]
no subject
Aral regards struggling form. The name he'd caught on chance, browsing through the newly offered network: "Miles Naismith." A laughable title of Admiral appended to a man long since deceased but in his wife's memories and quieter moments.
That would not have been enough if he hadn't seen the conversations, following with increasing ire the claims of the barbaric practice from Jackson's Whole attributed to him.. and enough resemblance to honestly make him wonder. The slander and honest, rolling hatred that came from that odd, not quite familiar face.
He'd simply intended to drag him, bodily, to the local law, lay his charges and see him stripped of power, deception and authority.
But then he saw that flash of gems and steel... Even in the brief moment, he could call its identity. A predatory confusion stretched itself out into a boiling, terrible rage. He stalked forward, using this new ability this world had bestowed to seal a knot on this impersonator's skills, binding them down to nothing as he caught the armed hand and divested it, summarily of the family heirloom.
He made no comment, circling the couch, merely slammed the blade to bury itself almost to the hilt in the coffee table in front of Miles.
With deceptive, sedate speed, he moved a chair to the other side of the table, the dagger - fine, masterfully forged steel still quivering from the forces exerted on it - between them. He found his own seat across from the other man, and waited.]
Miles Naismith, is it?