"Mh? Oh. Not very pretty, are they." He idly flicks back a shirt cuff, the cufflink catching the light. "From swords and such; the crosspieces, mostly. Mail and plated gloves only make matters worse, so most people pull them off after a quarter of an hour. Say, carissim'," he leans close to whisper against the perfectly sculpted shell of her ear, "aren't most wars personal, at some level?"
Lucrezia might have wanted to throttle her for that shade of blond. "As you say, madonna. I live to serve," he smiles at her, then gestures down the promenade. "Down this way."