Aamu
"Please," he says with a half-laugh, half-smile, light and easy. It's difficult to tell if Nate's cageyness is a polite way of saying he doesn't trust Aamu enough, or if he's just got issues with being offered kindness. "Complaining about Safrin is a favorite pastime of mine." She deserves it, for all she did in the war.
Some basics is nearly enough to make Aamu wince. They are cursed words known to every teacher of every discipline, but his pained face settles into one of mock disapproval as Nate twirls his sword. Not that he would've done much except bruise himself, since they're blunt practice swords, but it would've been unnecessary.
"Ah, long point," he says once Nate's settled in a stance. With his own sword held cavalierly in one hand, tip pointing harmlessly away, he steps closer to the other man and offers a few small corrections, such as the alignment of the blade and the straightness of his arms. (And maybe his strong but delicate hand lingers a moment too long on Nate's forearm, some vague inner confusion bubbling up inside of him—)
He takes a step back, mirroring the guard in front of Nate. "A simple, useful guard. Very good for dissuading your opponent from advancing, offers you many options to go into and plenty of reach." This is delivered with a mock thrust to emphasize his point. It is controlled, precise.
"Next guard—ox." Aamu shifts, fluid and elegant, raising his blade and facing Nate with his side instead. His arms are straight and held above the side, and slightly forward, of his head, the blade's tip angled forward: an obvious threat. He nods slightly to encourage Nate to mirror it.
Some basics is nearly enough to make Aamu wince. They are cursed words known to every teacher of every discipline, but his pained face settles into one of mock disapproval as Nate twirls his sword. Not that he would've done much except bruise himself, since they're blunt practice swords, but it would've been unnecessary.
"Ah, long point," he says once Nate's settled in a stance. With his own sword held cavalierly in one hand, tip pointing harmlessly away, he steps closer to the other man and offers a few small corrections, such as the alignment of the blade and the straightness of his arms. (And maybe his strong but delicate hand lingers a moment too long on Nate's forearm, some vague inner confusion bubbling up inside of him—)
He takes a step back, mirroring the guard in front of Nate. "A simple, useful guard. Very good for dissuading your opponent from advancing, offers you many options to go into and plenty of reach." This is delivered with a mock thrust to emphasize his point. It is controlled, precise.
"Next guard—ox." Aamu shifts, fluid and elegant, raising his blade and facing Nate with his side instead. His arms are straight and held above the side, and slightly forward, of his head, the blade's tip angled forward: an obvious threat. He nods slightly to encourage Nate to mirror it.
Through the streets and the houses of gods you roam
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
