Hector exhales slowly through his nose, scrutinizing Firo's grip with the same standard for perfection that he holds for himself. Life in the castle had been a cruel, but effective teacher. He learned quickly that the tiniest flaw in technique would dig a even the bravest man's grave, and a single slip-up would bury him in it. It's only when a bird begins to twitter somewhere above him that Hector's concentration breaks and his expression softens. Luceti wasn't a peaceful haven, but it was nothing like Dracula's fortress. This was a means of entertainment. Not preparation to defend each other from undead hordes. Here, mistakes could be made, could be fixed gently and with patience.

"Overall, yes, but your grip looks rather stiff to me," he says, taking up a sword for himself. "I am sure you know this from your experience with knives, but if one is too rigid, bones are easily broken. Too loose and the blade can be easily knocked aside." Hector steps back and flourishes his wooden weapon, rolls his wrist in a loose, but controlled figure eight. The pattern finished, he gestures toward a straw-and-canvas dummy lashed to the trunk of a nearby tree. "Relax your hand and experiment to see what grip best suits you."

There are other things to be said, but as a man who learns best with hands-on experience, he can't help but assume Firo is the same way. Many more things can be said, but for now, he stands in silence, ready to offer further aid and advice when it's needed. He doesn't want to ramble on like a tattered textbook.