Theea
takes blood, sweat, and tears to look natural
My grin becomes smug when he admits that I got him, and I withdraw my blade, letting it sit loose in my grip at my side. The wood-and-iron smell of the barracks hangs cool in the air; my breath ghosts pale. "Gotta start looking up," I chide.
I track his movements as he approaches the weapons rack, but before I can see what he's choosing, he's already throwing something at me. Instinct is what catches with a "Shit!" I look down at… "A shield?"
My nose crinkles a little, and I look up at him with only half-mock offense, and then I see he has one too. My lips pout, and I look down at the lightweight thing like it's a foreign object. I was never trained with a shield. Not really. Used one maybe twice in my life? Fuck. I slip it onto my arm and test it out; the strap bites my glove, the rim cold and clunky. Annoying.
But then he outright challenges me, the sound of it rolling through me with a shiver down my spine that could be blamed on the cold. Could be.
I narrow my eyes at him. I glance at the shield again and heft it a little in defiance and I smirk a little at him. Fine. I can use a shield.
I dart forward, low and quick, boots whispering over the snow. The shortsword flicks up in a sharp feint at his shoulder—just enough to make him lift his own shield if he falls for it—then I slam the rim of mine into the haft of his axe, trying to pin it against his guard for a heartbeat. I step inside his reach, hip-to-hip, twist my wrist, and swing the flat of my blade kiss his ribs.
[ training 1/4 ]
I track his movements as he approaches the weapons rack, but before I can see what he's choosing, he's already throwing something at me. Instinct is what catches with a "Shit!" I look down at… "A shield?"
My nose crinkles a little, and I look up at him with only half-mock offense, and then I see he has one too. My lips pout, and I look down at the lightweight thing like it's a foreign object. I was never trained with a shield. Not really. Used one maybe twice in my life? Fuck. I slip it onto my arm and test it out; the strap bites my glove, the rim cold and clunky. Annoying.
But then he outright challenges me, the sound of it rolling through me with a shiver down my spine that could be blamed on the cold. Could be.
I narrow my eyes at him. I glance at the shield again and heft it a little in defiance and I smirk a little at him. Fine. I can use a shield.
I dart forward, low and quick, boots whispering over the snow. The shortsword flicks up in a sharp feint at his shoulder—just enough to make him lift his own shield if he falls for it—then I slam the rim of mine into the haft of his axe, trying to pin it against his guard for a heartbeat. I step inside his reach, hip-to-hip, twist my wrist, and swing the flat of my blade kiss his ribs.
that's how it's done
