Weaver makes no move to attack again, drawing her blade away, sticking its wooden point into the dirt and leaning slightly, breathing heavily but with a grin on her face. ”My mother used to tell me that everyone would try to impose their way of fighting on me, but to take the pieces I liked of each and then make my own style.” It was the best advice she had ever gotten. Weaver was still learning. A million spars, but many in the snow with her brothers or play fights that devolved into wrestling matches. She would always be learning, and, more importantly, evolving. Everyone new she fought taught her something different. She stole their tricks and tactics and put them to use elsewhere.
”Where did you learn to fight?” she asks, making a little small talk as she recovers. She can feel the bruise on her side disappearing, the pain lessening. Healing magic was proving to be a handy thing, and after a moment she adds. ”Would you like me to fix that bruise? Unless you’d like a souvenir of our wonderful spar, of course,” she says with her usual Cheshire grin.
”Where did you learn to fight?” she asks, making a little small talk as she recovers. She can feel the bruise on her side disappearing, the pain lessening. Healing magic was proving to be a handy thing, and after a moment she adds. ”Would you like me to fix that bruise? Unless you’d like a souvenir of our wonderful spar, of course,” she says with her usual Cheshire grin.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
