#charmblooded - diarmuid from fe4/5, loved by harrow.
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@charmblooded
#charmblooded - diarmuid from fe4/5, loved by harrow.
about / interview / stats
portrayal notes under cut!

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(Fruits)
When Karla was very, very little, her mother used to make boortsog with her and her brothers. She liked it best with raspberry jam; each of her brothers had a preference, and still, after so many years, she can recall their preferences like they are her own. She remembers helping her mother prepare the dough, remembers watching it bake with tiny, still-powdered fingers tingling in excitement…
The cookies today here on offer are nothing like boortsog. They are much flatter, and there is no jam. But Karla still finds herself drawn to it, like she's drawn to all of the memories that encapsulate her waking and sleeping hours.
Her fingers pick up a small container of paste… that's pink. What sort of fruit is this brightly colored? She tries it, but it's terribly sweet, so much so she can't even imagine what sort of fruit it might be…
Holding the frosting aloft, the near-silent woman, countenance and figure that of a near ghost, turns to the person who has just joined her at the table. "Excuse me… what sort of jam is this?"
Diarmuid would be lying if he said he wasn't startled.
For all he worries and over-prepares, he still favors strength as often as he favors charm. Neither of those paths favor skill nor awareness, and so the half-faded woman nearly escaped his notice. She likely would have, had she not addressed him.
He inspects what she holds aloft, and then looks at the table. No signs indicate to him what, exactly, she holds. Curiously, then, he takes a small container of his own.
"Oh!" it's a bit too sweet for him, but he's familiar with the flavor of confectioneries, even if it's been some time since he indulged.
"It's frosting," he explains, not unkindly — his smile is gentle, tempered. "Usually used on cakes and things of their ilk. Ah, but this one is a bit too sweet, don't you think?"
how would you rate my monkeys on a scale of 1-10
Diarmuid, in the end, is never quite certain of how to approach her.
It ill becomes him, this nervousness — made all the worse by the fact he hardly knows what he's worried of. They are connected through family, perhaps slightly similar in distance, but he would hardly think to presume. So, no, he doesn't know what to say, or even where to find her.
Thankfully, his hunt doesn't last long. Long brown hair and a headband greet him as he weaves through cobbled streets, and his face brightens when he sees her. An unhurried jog carries him through the flow of people to her side, and he gives one broad wave before bowing his head, keeping step with her all-the-while.
"Lady Altena!" his smile blooms, bright, illuminating his eyes. "Tell me — you visited Verdane, correct?"
Both the sun and the comet are shining brightly above your head, as the festival is in full swing. Many red roofed stalls have opened, each of them having something to eat, something to do… and sometimes both at once!
Daytime Phase: Feb 14th - Feb 18th
Prompts:
(Fruits) A stall is offering to dip any fruits of your choosing into hot, delicious sugar! By letting it cool it encases the fruit with a crunchy sweet shell. Would you like to create a sweet for your sweetheart? Or are you just pushing the limits of the stuff you can dip…?
(Cookies) What better way to make new friends (or affirm your existing friendships) than with cookies in the shape of your pals? This stall offers anything you might need to that end. And for the creatively challenged.. Don't worry, they say poor craftsmanship is part of the charm.
(Gachapon) A strange device sits at the festival grounds, containing little capsules with dolls inside of them. The perfect memento! For a few pieces of gold one of them can be yours- and who knows what you’ll get?
(Facepaint) Fun for kids and adults! A face painter put up a stall where you can get all kinds of intricate designs put on your face, from flowers to butterflies to dragons! And if you don’t like the selection? You can always paint something on yourself. Or ask a friend to do it!
(Merry) Powered by magic this platform spins round and round, with little wooden horses for up to two to ride on! It’s a surprisingly magical experience, experts say.
(Fight) Some warriors bond through battle, but no owies allowed! So the festival committee has prepared a battleground for you and several hollow, non-damaging weapons that make a delightful squeaky sound when you hit stuff with them!
(Stage) During the day the stage is mostly empty, but the magic sound enhancing equipment remains. Do you have the guts to shout your feelings to everyone present? Or maybe you want to do something else?
(Toss) Get all the cans to fall with just one toss of a ball and win a delightful prize! Ranging from plush toys to.. weapons? Either way, give it your best shot! (What? The stall owner, cheating? Nah… it can’t be.)
(Fried) Hey this wasn’t part of the plan! …anyway, someone put down a huge vat of oil for you to fry stuff in. They even provided some batter for dipping if you like a crispy crust! Just.. try to be reasonable, okay?
(Clown) One of the stalls just features a single, sad looking clown. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything either. Whether you feel fear or pity.. Maybe he just wants some company?
honey its cold out put a hat on — diarmuid & edain
"diarmuid!!"
edain's voice comes out alarmingly loud watching the owner of the name she shouts stumble to the pavement, dropping something to the ground in the process.
she hurries to his side, kneeling down before him and completely disregarding anything around them but him. her worried gaze follows every little action he takes, no matter how small.
"are you okay? you aren't pushing yourself again, are you...?"
@charmblooded
it's just a stumble, barely even a fall — anyone can trip. diarmuid has been graceless lately, clumsy in a way that leads easily to danger. clumsy, but he refuses to lay down and let it be.
barely even a fall.
he's dusting his shirt off when edain's voice reaches him, eyes squinted against the sharp edge of a pounding headache. his hands are steady enough, at least, although the stumble has made his ribs ache.
"i'm alright," he promises her quickly, flashing a smile. "i only stumbled. the ground here is hardly even!"
he blinks again, willing away the pounding in his head.

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this is...YOUR circus??
expedition week 3 verdane - agustria visit (wc limit: 200)
For a boy who distinguishes himself as student over knight, he certainty carries the extensive formalities of one. Has the whole noble name prepared and everything, too. Good thing he has a pretty face to back it up.
…Wait, is this the moment noblemen expect the lady to extend her hand? Or is he content enough with her just returning the paper.
Hopefully he is simply fine with the latter, as Sonya does just that. A dainty smile is at least provided with the motion, and substitutes as an immediate response to his extended question.
“Glad we got the ‘capable’ part out of the way there. Though I suppose we fought together earlier to prove it. But no need to worry about me. As much as getting a ride back would be favorable…I’d rather see my thoughts delivered in a timely manner.”
She motions toward the paper now in his pocket. Part of her thinks that is more than enough to send him on his way, though she finds herself spinning around in the night for one more statement.
“Oh, and just Sonya’s fine. If you were wondering. No need for family name for me.”
Diarmuid, in turn, casts his gaze over his shoulder — towards where he'll be heading, towards rosebushes more thorns than blossoms. His expression flickers, then, soft-smile into a stern neutrality. It's only when Sonya pauses that he turns his head back, lifting his eyes to meet hers.
One more smile for the road, then. It raises his cheeks, earnestly asymmetrical.
He'd given his family name as a promise, an assurance that her words would reach someone, but for all his family means to him, the truth is —
"Diarmuid's just fine for me."
(And, for all his luminosity, he disappears easily enough into the trees with a wave and a wink goodbye.)
this is...YOUR circus??
expedition week 3 verdane - agustria visit (wc limit: 200)
Sonya is beginning to like his style well. A lot more resourceful than she cared to expect of the man.
But that does make her question…this handwriting. Is this truly his, in comparison to the other that she’s shown him? It cannot be the scripture of others from their band, given his witty remark that…surely is meant to be jest and nothing more. So then who takes ownership of the first set of criticisms?
“You’re doing this for yourself, aren’t you? Unless you fancy being an errand boy, we can keep this to ourselves,” she declares just in case. It already feels like a risk getting more involved than she has to with this land’s power struggles. Not that Diarmuid seems to have to face the same considerations.
Without further hesitation, Sonya bends down momentarily to grab the other paper as she sets ink and quill to her side. With rushed writing that is somewhat better than chicken scratch, she writes:
“If your head is straight enough to remain standing, it could do to learn some proper consideration.”
“That…should be enough,” she concludes, standing back up. “Now. Can I trust the rest to you?”
"I'm doing this for L— my family."
No defensiveness, the same warm charming smile.
(And, yes, he does do this for himself, but that comes later. That comes with the letter he's delivering, with the desire to be an errand boy, with every day he spends trying to ensure that there's still an Agustria for Ares to return to when he leaves Garreg Mach. For his family is for himself, the selfishness he'll allow himself to grasp without remorse.)
Diarmuid bends at the waist, then, an earnest bow with an extended hand.
"My name is Diarmuid Ragnfiðr Nordion. On that name, I will see this message delivered."
He says his full name with a weight to it, a promise wrapped in the way he lingers slightly on the final 'n'. He will take responsibility for this, in the absence of anyone else to do so.
The paper is carefully folded, then, returned alongside Lord Ares' note. He does not correct himself in this internal thought — he operates as an extension of his will, and so Ares is his lord.
"Do you need anything else? I'll admit, it feels ungentlemanly to leave a woman alone in the dark woods, but you've proven yourself more than capable."
this is...YOUR circus??
expedition week 3 verdane - agustria visit (wc limit: 200)
Always. He says it without hesitation. On the bright side, you get what you expect when dealing with such rotten people.
“I’m used to not being trusted, don’t need to be dishonest,” Sonya lightly responds, unafraid to let something slip as easily as he puts down his countrymen. “I simply had a new thought. Of why I’m here…”
As she trails on, she slips both hands into pockets on her outfit. On her left, she pulls out a small, slightly ruffled quill. It is accompanied with a tiny jar of ink on her right. The dimness of the night makes it nearly impossible to notice it, but the bottle is a deep dark purple.
“One paper with two complaints on it. Two birds, one stone. Need I explain more?”
She lacks a wink in kind, but closed eyes show off her own wittiness.
Diarmuid decides, in this dimly-lit moment, that he's fond of her style.
A compromise — he pulls out another piece of paper. This one is adorned in thin, slanted, handwriting, with ys and gs that loop over on themselves. The notes here are far less direct, but no less scathing — a detailed note on how Nordion could've served to host their number serves only as the opening.
It's Diarmuid's own handwriting, and there's plenty of space for more.
He offers it to her with a grin that slips from earnest to wry.
"But now I wonder! Should I have gathered all our group's complaints?"
He says it as a joke.
(He's entirely serious.)
this is...YOUR circus??
expedition week 3 verdane - agustria visit (wc limit: 200)
At this rate, she wouldn’t have desired their hospitality even if they had offered. Though finding out why Diarmuid brings this up does snap Sonya out of the blind anger across her face.
“So…you associate yourself with them?”
The daze present in her query lacks the edge present on his person. That is because she is wiser than to get mad at a countryman trying to solve the faults of his inferiors. On the contrary, she is glad to see the anger transferred from her to him.
“I’m nearly intrigued to ask if they’re always like this. But now is far from the time to be mulling over politics,” Sonya mumbles conclusively, giving another look at the message with newfound context. A beat passes.
“...Mind I hold that for a moment longer? It’ll be right back in your hands. Promise.”
"Oh, they always are."
Diarmuid answers this easily enough, his tone bright yet. Were it up to him, he wouldn't expose the dysfunction so readily; given that his countrymen have already done so themselves, he sees no issue in confirming it. Corruption runs deep in Jugdral, and Agustria is far from the exception. Their month here has surely shown the foreigners among them that much.
He does hesitate a moment, paper still in hand. It's unlike him to be suspicious, but even so —
"Not that I don't trust you," a little wink for emphasis. "But what for?"
(Because this is, in the end, something entrusted to him by Lord Ares.)
this is...YOUR circus??
expedition week 3 verdane - agustria visit (wc limit: 200)
Hmm, a misjudgment on her end. He has the looks of being one of those fancy knights, in her defense. Same goes for the quality of the scribble that he passes to her to look over.
The message is about as much as she should expect one of their group to voice toward the stubborn nobility. However, even she can tell that the message is vastly more thought out in comparison to a reckless attempt at a revenge trip.
Something that she is being terrible at hiding her intent of doing just this moment. And yet for as much as he does seem to concern himself with the state of affairs…he doesn’t speak any intent to stop her. Almost like he’s allowing for it instead.
A conversation with another blonde student flashes in her head. One done in the bitter cold only a week earlier. The cold might still be somewhat present tonight…but the subject is eerily familiar.
“Screw it,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “Slapping them back is going to fix nothing. I’d rather leave them with this…looks like it’d dig a lot deeper.
“Were you…prepared for this? Their intruding, I mean.”
"Their intruding? No. Their refusal to host us? Unfortunately, yes."
There is something to be said of the way anger sits under the tongue of someone usually mild-mannered and pleasant. Diarmuid's anger has always been folded small and tucked away, released when a situation calls for him to bleed passion. The firebrands he keeps company of dictate that he stay level-headed and surefooted, willing to tug them back before an incident becomes a wildfire.
He wears anger, then, with a duplicity befitting a noble. His smile towards her has never wavered, not as he retrieves his note nor lowers his hands, but there's an edge to it. A flash of steel, the showing of one's hand.
"I wasn't aware they were pressuring travelers from Garreg Mach, in general. Please accept my apology on their behalf."
Which is to say — I don't agree with them.
Which is to say — Since they're clearly not sorry.

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this is...YOUR circus??
expedition week 3 verdane - agustria visit (wc limit: 200)
Of course, two travelers in the same direction is the most obvious verdict to assume. But blame it on the lowering of the sun, or perhaps Sonya’s simple preparation for the worst, and her immediate resorting to threat is a slight amount more reasonable.
“Good point,” she confirms aloud, only now lowering her hand back by her side and resting it on her hip. “You’re one of those knights the church throws coin at, yeah? I remember your sword skill being good from a while back. Guess I have no hold against you coming with.”
Part of why she indirectly teases the way she does rather than answer his reflected question is in the struggle to find a proper response. At least, one that would avoid her sounding like a bloodthirsty maniac.
“I’m…” Sonya bites her lip, her prattling clearly not long enough to formulate a decent cover-up. “I have some kind words for those we helped massacre innocent people with. Get me?”
Not the worst phrasing, right?
"A student now, actually."
Diarmuid does claim this one a bit louder, although not so loud as to attract potential attention from passerby. He steps a bit closer, lowering one hand (the other still raised, just in case) to pull a paper from a pocket on his belt.
"Another coincidence! How lucky I am. I have a message here for them —"
"Have you, perhaps, never studied proper etiquette?"
"Learn it fast, lest you force me to come teach it to you personally."
(Her intention is not lost on him, but he makes it known in this moment — this situation is more personal to him.)
"I can't help you harm them, nor ease your passage."
But he doesn't stand in her way.
all of my indiscretions
mission board: aphotic
You are not so unfamiliar with aching.
Aching in the form of longing, aching in the form of waiting for spring — you bloom best under summer skies, and you find yourself often awaiting them, longing to spread your petals and grasp your little piece of sunlight. Aching is a wistful thing, a song to remind you that you can always do better, and aching is a memory, a decision to always stand beside those with no one else.
(Sometimes, you think about how you began to doubt Lord Ares, in the space between letters and the turn of seasons, and the way you think he is sturdier than you could ever hope to be.)
The ache that starts in your chest, then, feels of little consequence. It digs a hole there and sits nicely nestled beside other feelings, feelings like selfishness and pretending and inferiority. You could grow a garden of these feelings if you wished.
(Sometimes, you think about a thing that Lord Leif said, something that shouldn't have stuck so strongly in your head at all — "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get annoyed once, Diarmuid." )
You don't like self-pity. You don't much care for pity at all. You try very hard to not be pitied, to not fall short in those moments where you could be pitied — you try very hard to be someone worthy of being who you are. You try very hard to make it look like you don't have to try so desperately to give what you give. You don't like pity, after all.
(Sometimes, you think about dancing with Nanna, and the way you think she is better at being a sister than you are at being a brother.)
You view your family with a quiet reverence, and they are the only selfishness you allow yourself — untouchable, a goal to ever-strive for.
(You want to be them.)
In the library, Diarmuid sits next to a stack of books. It's a scene so simple it could be nothing at all — a low-burning candle, the scratch of a quill across a page, a few propped open to various pages. It's a tedious act of cross-reference and reminding, but it is one he bears gladly. Agustria does not hold itself properly in his, in any of their, absences.
It is not solely his duty to bear, but he bears it gladly.
Tired as he is, the footsteps nearly escape his notice — nearly, but not quite, if only for the familiar shape they take. Were he to not notice, it would be — well, there's no use dreading such what-ifs. He knows those footsteps surely, and so he raises his head, and wax drips down the candle, and he thinks —
(You are so tired. Wouldn't it be easier to rid yourself of this?)
"Lo- Ares!"
A scrabbled-for correction. Oh, how it frustrates him how difficult the simple request is! Stubbornness runs in both of their veins, a complement and a curse, but the easy smile that Diarmuid offers his cousin is one surely inherited from his mother.
"What brings you here at this hour?"
(You could do this duty better without something in your way.)
You do not want to ignore him, but the aching is sharp and loud in your ears like the adrenaline and bloodlust.
@lionscion
this is...YOUR circus??
expedition week 3 verdane - agustria visit (wc limit: 200)
If she thinks about it, what she is doing right now is precisely opposite of what she swore not to do within Silesse. But that is why Sonya barely thought about it before darting through the silent night.
Perhaps it is rather reckless that she refused to take the day-ride to Evans. On the other hand, she didn’t really feel like letting anyone else know about where she planned to go. And if she dared to prattle about her plans to the rest of her team…surely they’d just fret over getting the monastery in trouble. Pathetic.
She’s used to taking trips like this on foot, in the dark no less. Putting full effort into giving those dull Agustrian nobles a piece of her mind will be more worth it anyhow-
A rustle comes from one of the side path’s trees. Without hesitation, the mage preps her signature magic within her hands. The winds lick at her fingers until she manages to recognize the pretty face from a short while back.
“Ah. Sorry. Were you one of this land’s knights I thought it best to knock you out. Or worse,” she cheers. “So then. Why’re you following me? Spit it out.”
@charmblooded
Diarmuid raises his hands, an instinctive defensive surrender. He casts his gaze side to side, as if seeking someone else she could be referring to; when he's done his little look-around, his eyes train solely on hers. There's something different in his gaze than that charming pretty boy smile from two weeks prior, something more steeled.
"Following you?" he asks, his words light, half-whispered to preserve the sanctity of these nighttime hours. He shakes his head in dismissal.
"Hardly my intention! Isn't it just as likely we are two travelers headed towards the same destination?"
He laughs, slowly lowering his hands when he feels certain wind isn't about to cut into him.
"I have a message to deliver. And you?"
three-way offensive
expedition week 3 verdane - purple subteam 1
She cant think straight, she cant move.
Laylea's body laid there- her eyes were locked in on the corpse for a moment to long as she was dragged along. Lene knew she had to keep moving, but she couldn't.
She couldn't focus, yet she draws her bow. Tears filled her eyes as she tried blinking them away. "This place has been.... nothing but a nightmare" It pained her to say that, she wanted to hope that things could've been at least marginally better.
The arrow struck bark on a nearby tree, and lene took that as a sign to run into the trees as she was instructed. "Im sorry" she whispered, her face was mixed. She just hopes the battle ends quickly.
It's too much.
It's too much, and it's not enough. His mouth tastes coppery, head swimming, and his fingertips still feel cold despite the fact they'd left Silesse far behind. It's too much, and his head pounds. It's too much, and he can't see, not straight, not right.
Should've rested better, but there's no time for what-ifs. Should've, could've, would've, but he has to. There are people to protect and there are roots underfoot, and the forest feels like a pressure in his skull.
He forces himself to breathe and urges his mount forward.
There's something to be said about hindsight, and something less-often said about the moment when you realize you've miscalculated. The extra step on a staircase that sends you falling, the dodge to the side that you know has left you open.
In this case, it's a swing of his sword through dappling shadows, and the understanding of the blow that will crush his ribcage in vivid seconds before it comes. The moments stretch out forever, and he thinks he is sorry,
often sorry, always sorry, for the gaps in where he's grown.
Knocked askew, he moves with the blow, attempting to mitigate the sting. Something in his chest cracks, and he falls against the ground, and trying to breathe stings.
He breathes out. He breathes in. Adrenaline leaves him dizzy.
He keeps his grip on his sword,
and nothing, once more, darkness, a blanket, a respite.
Diarmuid has been KO'd!
three-way offensive
expedition week 3 verdane - purple subteam 1
How could they-
Lene has dealt with nothing but problems since theyve arrived, and it honestly broke her heart. Would their home be nothing but a source of conflict for as long as they continued on living?
She had to adapt. The new gear stayed close to her as her only sense of safety, and that's when she heard it − it sounded like a familiar
It couldn't be, she didnt want to believe it, not right now. It activated something deep inside her, for a moment the world went quiet, and her body moved on its own. She pushed passed the larger red haired man, almost to roughly than she originally intended.
The brigand wasn't given a chance to react. Her blade pierced through him, and she stood there for a second to long "i need..." her voice was barely above a whisper "i need to check to see if she's ok" her lips quivered.
@charmblooded @heriteur
Diarmuid is intimately familiar with it, as much as he loathes it — the attitudes of their newfound companions catch on something jagged and half-formed in his chest, prying at the edges of his own doubt. The reason he'd left, and the reason he would always return. He thinks to raise his voice to anything —
protest, redirection. Anything.
His voice is stolen before he can find it, before he can argue against arrogance.
Arrows fly and blood spills and he reacts without thinking turning without seeing, not really, and his head still pounds from where he'd been struck a week ago and in the dense forest he can hardly see but he yells, hoarse,
"Laylea!"
but there is no time to spare, is there? Not on desperation, and not on hoping — in the absence of decisiveness, there is no do-overs. So he grips his sword, and he steadies his breath, and he peers around the terrain as if nostalgia can guide him. His mount shifts restlessly beneath him. The pressure of the forest feels heavy, and he sees, he sees, he sees
he sees
nothing at all. Despite his desperation, despite his anger and his grief and his surge forward, the sniper he swore he'd dove for seems only further from his reach. The sole solace is their lack of retaliation, trapped in close quarters with him as they are.
He blinks, forcing his vision to refocus.

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The moments of happiness
silesse ◈ Sailane recovery
“Ah, you do favour a mount don’t you? I hadn’t considered that.” Laylea sits up slightly, resting her head on her arm. Loose hair falls softly around her, she uses one flick of the wrist to get it out of her face, but does not fight where it falls back.
“I wouldn’t call it a secret, I am fond of the desert. I prefer outfits that flow freely, but they don’t offer much warmth. I’m afraid I would have frozen long before we reached Sailane if I hadn’t been prepared.”
Her gaze flicks between Diarmuid and the fire, the light bringing out all the brown hues in her eyes. Though it’s a simple conversation, it feels special.
“There’s nothing like this in the desert, though. After a certain point it’s impossible to cool down gracefully. I could walk through the snowy mountains again if I knew there was a cozy fire and pleasant company waiting at the end.”
"Pleasant company?" Diarmuid shifts one arm to point to himself, smiling coyly as he does so, as if to say could you mean me?. "Ah, but you are yourself! If I'd known being frostbitten would lead me here —"
He shakes his head.
"I've more a sense of responsibility than that. But the last two weeks have felt tense, to say the least. I feel like I'm melting, in more ways than just one."
Their eyes match, then, firelit and comfortable, melted brown or molten amber.
"I feel the same. About the desert, that is. It's easier to warm up than cool down."
You're Not Going Out Dressed Like That, Young Man
Expedition Lore 2026 Team Purple Week 2 Prompt 3
Wow, here Lex had been expecting a rebuke or a refusal, not open acceptance. He was used to the Jugdrali he didn't know being more standoffish, especially when it came to others from Jugdral. Lex couldn't blame them for that, of course. After all, running into someone else from Jugdral usually meant dealing with their frustrating political opinions and maybe hearing about how people without holy blood should all explode and die. Diarmuid seemed downright pleasant, if a bit determined. Lex couldn't fault him for that. He'd be one hell of a hypocrite if he did-- which he was, just not about this particular issue. Well, not for Diarmuid, at least. Lex usually only took issue with his father and brother being determined and stubborn the same way he was.
"Ha! Lucky you that I came along, then," Lex chuckled, giving a little flex to accentuate his words. "I'm plenty good at carrying stuff, y'know. One of the things I'm best at. That, and looking pretty, but I think Ayra'd be pretty mad if I did that too well without her around. What about you, though? Not the pretty part, I don't care about that. It'd be weird if I did. Look, are you sure you're feeling up to carrying a bunch of stuff?"
Not like he knew what Diarmuid had been through, but he could wager a guess. He didn't know if the guy had any sort of pride that would prevent him from discussing what he'd endured, but Lex knew that he wouldn't be all too willing to admit he wasn't up to carrying heavy objects after he just got his ass kicked. One round of humiliation was usually enough for him. Lex usually tried to help out with carrying things or other tasks that required strength after doing badly in a fight-- getting to feel strong in small ways was a way to feel better about himself and his poor performance.
"Name's Lex, by the way," Lex said with a small nod. "I'm, uh... a friend of your mother's. Man, that feels so weird to say..."
"Lucky I am!" Diarmuid's smile stays, sunshine-bright and near blinding in the way of light upon snow. "For both someone strong, and a friend of family. I'd hardly ask you to carry it all. Surely we can find a fair split between us?"
He slides from his perch as he speaks, settling on his feet at his rather unremarkable height. Where Lex nods, Diarmuid extends a hand — his left, avoiding the way his right shoulder is yet stiff and bandaged.
It presents a far more put-together front than he feels.
"I'd guess my name precedes me, then?"