As they are considering what items to choose from the selection provided to victors, Ninian looks to the side to see Griss holding up seashells that appear to be intended for use as chest armor. Somehow it doesn't surprise her that he would cover as little of his chest as possible, though it is fascinating that such an item exists at all; human bodies are so very fragile, and still they are willing to wear such little protection (or none at all, but Sir Griss’ liking of pain is unconventional). While she considered the shells herself earlier, they will surely serve him better: little protection is better than none, and she can rely on her true form’s scales besides.
“A stylish choice, Sir Griss,” she comments quietly, with a small smile. “They suit you, and I'm glad to know you'll have some form of protection.”
“You got a weird sense of style,” Griss quips. He’d been trying to figure out what exactly he was holding for the past few minutes, twine strung between his hands, concentration fixed on the pair of palm-sized scallop shells that hung from it. He glances sidelong at the dragon, then back at the ornament. That’s what it had to be: an ornament. Or— he drops one side of it and swings the other around his finger. A weapon? Without much weight on it, it flutters and flaps— maybe a distraction?
Stylish… Protection…
The serrated edge of one of the shells nicks his wrist and an epiphany lights up his eyes.
“Right.” He catches the twine between both hands again, and then starts to tie it to the leather straps that run beneath both of his arms. “I dunno about protection…” He didn’t need that anyway. These are something better. He slaps the shells against his chest when he’s done, and they bite flesh just like cilices. Ninian’s concern gets another round of his rough laughter.
“But they’re gonna hurt so good!”
Even if he’d have the outline of two palm-sized shells imprinted on his chest for days to come.
