Dragn

Krem preassure

A pressure deeper and deeper with every slash of the blade, stress building up like a crescendo one by one fears stacking on top of each other like bricks and the weight of the world presses on shoulders until breathing no longer comes easy, not from restrictions of the flesh and clothe but a tightness of the mind and air is no longer a relief but a burden and burning reminder of what mistakes can create with the image of blood and brothers at the crisp edge of view-

"Cole, you really shouldn't root around in people's heads when they can't hear you," The Iron Bull chides, not unkindly. His brows are furrowed nonetheless but not from anger. Worry. Deep seated worry.

"I was speaking out loud." It's not a question, but a bid for confirmation. The Iron Bull nods. "Good."

"Oh you wanted to share my charge's deepest fears with me over a water break?" Bull teases, because surely Cole is smart enough not to do so and because it's a troubling thought.

"It's not what I had come out here to participate in," Cole whispers, "but it was a conscious decision." His eyes are hidden behind the brim of his ungodly large hat, but his mouth is visible to Bull. He's frowning. Perhaps Bull isn't the only worried one.

Krem dutifully practices with their men, dropping orders and teasing and making himself a surprise assailant on the training field to keep them on their toes. It's natural, routine, it's good for them. Iron Bull is used to the familiarity of it all, the background always changes but the actions stay the same. Still, Cole's words burrow into his thoughts and he can't help but notice how stiff Krem gets every time one of the men lands a hit with their practice swords. Hardly enough to bruise, never enough to hurt. That's not why they practice.

"He's not worried about the practice, he's seeing somewhere else when they mark," Cole pipes up. Bull grumbles in response. Didn't know when to stop rooting around did he.

"Not worried about the practice, no, he's looking at it through the lens of a real battle." Iron Bull knows his men can hold their own, he knows it because the fights are all evenly matched and perfectly timed. They need to land hits on each other just as well as they block them so of course it's a standstill. But it can't stay even matched forever or they learn nothing. Gain nothing.

Cole stays silent, watching one pair of chargers closely. He slips and is hit in the side with the practice weapon. The man shakes it off but Krem isn't as loose about it. "He'd be dead if that were a real sword."

"He would."

Krem continues his rounds, eyebrows pinched. Usually he rather enjoyed trainings, practice, it's a wonder Iron Bull hadn't noticed sooner. Perhaps it's a lend to just how much the stress had been pressing on himself. Still, he isn't going to leave his men to crush themselves.

"I told you so you could help him make things not heavy, The Iron Bull, are you going to help?" Cole sounds hopeful. He kicks his legs over the ledge of where he sits.

The Iron Bull slaps his thighs and stands up, offering Cole a confirming nod before heading down the steps to join his Chargers. Krem is off to the side for a moment, arms crossed as he buries himself deeper in his thoughts. Bull clasps a hand on his shoulder not giving him much of a choice but to follow into the weapons storage room behind them.

"Chief?" Krem straightens with his arms folded behind himself.

"Sit, I wanna talk with you," Iron Bull gestures to one of the crates. He sits himself across, leaning one arm heavy on his bad knee.

Krem plunks down with a graceful 'clunk' of his heavy armor. The pinch in his face is gone but not well hidden. Not if you've been trained as a Ben-Hassrath anyway. Krem gestures for him to speak, leaning forward on his knees.