BENEATH THE PALACE
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EVENING
Breaker Cooper. An odd name, albeit a very fitting one, considering what they were relying on him to do. Lars nodded his head ever-so-slightly to the answer, appreciative but not enough to grant her verbal thanks for a simple name. Besides, his eyes were still fixed firmly upon this Breaker, who had turned now to look at them again, taking Niccolette's correction with ease. When he was addressed, he felt himself swallow, almost nervously - he wasn't easily intimidated by anyone besides galdori, but he knew he didn't want to be on the other end of Breaker's work.
Or - Bertold's work. Lars offered a smile in response, bowing his head slightly.
"The pleasure's all mine, si - Bertold," the passive corrected himself quickly. Gods, what was that? Sir? He'd not called anyone 'sir' without getting paid for it since he'd left Brunnhold, and it wasn't a habit he was intent on bringing back. It was as if the man simply demanded that respect, or that Lars felt the need to bestow it upon him, just for existing as a creature so unlike himself.
Fortunately he was distracted quickly, gray eyes dragged away from Bertold when Niccolette went to her prisoner again. He felt the flood of living magic as her field pulsed, again, and he willed himself not to flinch at the sudden sensation, not now. When he'd been badly injured it had been one thing, but he didn't particularly enjoy showing weakness otherwise, even if a galdor could tell that their field affected him.
Their prisoner did little in the ways of answering the Bastian's question - he was a fool, especially after he'd experienced her wrath firsthand - and remained, fortunately for Lars' morbid curiosity, defiant and (mentally) unbroken. If he was surprised to see Niccolette shrug it off and turn away, he did well at not showing it, his gaze darting back to Bertold hastily, expectantly, like a child waiting to be given his sweets.
It wasn't long before the nameless Brothers pulled the prisoner up and suspended him on the hook like one would do with a fish. He was disappointed, he realized, that he'd not been hooked by the neck, or the back, or the leg - but this was perfectly fine, suitable of course for what Bertold intended to do, and Bertold did not disappoint.
The white-haired passive couldn't help but jump as Bertold's fist slammed against the counter, rattling his tools, voice booming out like a crack of thunder. It didn't help his nerves beneath his jittery skin, the former servant puling his arms tighter to himself across his chest, taking a deep breath of stale air into his lungs as the larger Brother finally connected his fist with the prisoner's weakened body. However, a hand did snake upward to his own face as Bertold's went to the prisoners, the passive's delicate fingers pressing slightly into his sliced-up cheek.
He managed to stay quiet and relatively still - until, of course, Bertold grabbed the prisoner by the throat, rearing back his head to smash into the man's face, practically destroying his poor nose. It was impossible, then, not to laugh, his fingers slipping over to cover his mouth in some attempt not to let the giddy laughter out, but the sound was there all the same.
Was this really a career one could make for themselves, or did Bertold do this out of pure enjoyment? If he could only get paid to do this, gods. He didn't know what else he could want.
Lars did manage to control himself soon, the light noise muffled into silence, and looked again to Niccolette to see what she would do next with her unfortunate attacker.