Theea
if you can't blow them away with your brilliance
He heads for the racks and I track him without moving, trying to read the set of his shoulders, the way his hands hover before they settle. Spear. Familiar, then. Good reach, rough grip.
When he comes back I square up again, knees soft. His sweep skims in—easy step over, heel kissing ice. The jab follows and I twist with it, feel the cool rush of iron pass my coat, braid flicking my collar. Momentum carries me through; I let it. I pivot on the slick, slide half a step and bring the flatside of my shortsword across toward his shoulder—clean, controlled, training-true, no edge.
Breath ghosts between us; I grin.
“Nice choice.” I chirp, eyes flicking up to those saturated blues as the blade whistles in. “Where’re you from, Marcus?”
[ training 1/4 ]
When he comes back I square up again, knees soft. His sweep skims in—easy step over, heel kissing ice. The jab follows and I twist with it, feel the cool rush of iron pass my coat, braid flicking my collar. Momentum carries me through; I let it. I pivot on the slick, slide half a step and bring the flatside of my shortsword across toward his shoulder—clean, controlled, training-true, no edge.
Breath ghosts between us; I grin.
“Nice choice.” I chirp, eyes flicking up to those saturated blues as the blade whistles in. “Where’re you from, Marcus?”
baffle them with your bullshit
