Theea
takes blood, sweat, and tears to look natural
I feel only a brief flicker of victory when I land a blow, no matter how small—then I’m locked against his shield, and I’m no match for his strength in my small frame. I grit my teeth, baring them when he taunts me again. He hauls my shield down, trapping me where he can swing his axe straight for it. The strike slams into the face of my shield and I stagger, my whole arm singing with the impact.
"Keep laughing," I warn, eyes narrowed over what could be called a feral grin. I'm more in my element than he thinks.
Heat prickles under my too-thin layers now, sweat damp at the nape of my neck; I love the bite of the cold against it, the way Deepfrost air sears clean through my lungs and makes everything sharper.
Don’t meet strength with strength—change angles.
I ride the stagger into a turn, letting the momentum spin me off his centerline. My shield pops up high, loud and showy to clog his sight, while my feet cut quick: a drop-step outside his weapon side, then a cross-step that threads me toward his blind. I “swim” my shield arm over his forearm, sliding the rim along his guard just long enough to pin it a heartbeat instead of wrestling it. My free hand punches the shield boss toward the crook of his elbow to jam his turn.
Then I duck under and around.
Snow scuffs under my heel as I pivot behind his shoulder, hips tight to his flank for an instant. The shortsword stays forward-gripped; my elbow tucks, wrist straight, and I drive the point on a short, mean jab for the small of his back—kidney-height, quick and surgical—before I’m already peeling away to his rear quarter. I don’t hang to admire anything; shield snaps down, breath fumes white, and I reset two paces out, pulse bright, eyes locked on his for whatever comes next.
"Come on, Damien," I all but purr. "Is that all you've got?"
[ training 3/4 ]
"Keep laughing," I warn, eyes narrowed over what could be called a feral grin. I'm more in my element than he thinks.
Heat prickles under my too-thin layers now, sweat damp at the nape of my neck; I love the bite of the cold against it, the way Deepfrost air sears clean through my lungs and makes everything sharper.
Don’t meet strength with strength—change angles.
I ride the stagger into a turn, letting the momentum spin me off his centerline. My shield pops up high, loud and showy to clog his sight, while my feet cut quick: a drop-step outside his weapon side, then a cross-step that threads me toward his blind. I “swim” my shield arm over his forearm, sliding the rim along his guard just long enough to pin it a heartbeat instead of wrestling it. My free hand punches the shield boss toward the crook of his elbow to jam his turn.
Then I duck under and around.
Snow scuffs under my heel as I pivot behind his shoulder, hips tight to his flank for an instant. The shortsword stays forward-gripped; my elbow tucks, wrist straight, and I drive the point on a short, mean jab for the small of his back—kidney-height, quick and surgical—before I’m already peeling away to his rear quarter. I don’t hang to admire anything; shield snaps down, breath fumes white, and I reset two paces out, pulse bright, eyes locked on his for whatever comes next.
"Come on, Damien," I all but purr. "Is that all you've got?"
that's how it's done
