lucetilogs | (no subject)

Nodding his agreement, he staves off a chuckle. He firmly believes that new knowledge comes to those of any skill level, be they clumsy, greenhorn apprentices or well-seasoned masters. Perhaps if Lord Dracula, the undisputed champion of darkness and evil, had used his immortality to learn a few more tricks, he would not have fallen under Hector's blade. "Your teacher seems a wise fellow, then," he says, poking the tip of his blade into the soil and leaning against it. "Granted, I do not know him in person."

A few seconds pass before Hector once more draws attention to Firo's strokes. "Try taking a few steps back. 'Tis not necessary to stand so close with longer weapons. Stand close, and not only is it more difficult to swing, but you are left with less time to parry an opponent's attack."

"He is. Taught me a lotta what I know." For hand-to-hand, anyway; Ronnie and Mr. Martillo taught Firo most of his knife fighting. "He's a lot sharper than you'd think, too." Firo learned that the hard way.

He nods and adjusts his distance. After a moment, feeling the urge to move forward once again, he laughs and shakes his head. "...Feels weird bein' so far away."

"I have known men like that," Hector replies, a cool, but soft chuckle dancing across his voice. "'Tis most unwise to judge someone by their appearance alone, particularly when they aim a weapon toward you."

It's once more that the Forgemaster speaks from experience. As a man of scarcely eighteen summers, he'd commanded his first battle under Dracula's banner. Small it had been, but not small enough that an untested general could escape without issue. He'd cornered a straggler at the battle's end, and after thinking a dagger was no match for his sword, rushed in to finish him. Victory had luckily been his. But the jagged gash on his leg taught him lessons only experience could.

Ever watchful, he circles around to Firo's other side, blunted blade again resting against his shoulder. "Be mindful of your wrist again." A thoughtful pause, another chuckle. "But if you think this to be a strange distance, I suppose 'tis for the best I did not bring longswords."

Firo nods, grinning. This might not seem the cheeriest topic of conversation, but he likes thinking about his family. "Doesn't even need a weapon." Though, like any of the Martillos, Mr. Yagu's very capable of using one.

At that advice, Firo nods again and adjusts.

Sword still extended, Firo pauses his strikes to look over at Hector, eyes wide with disbelief. "There's ones even bigger?" He's interested in weapons, but he's never bothered to study them beyond what he can ask people. And gangsters have little use for swords.

Hector's brows lift in surprise. How could someone who's so interested in knives have no-, wait. Sighing, he kneads his temple, marveling at his own foolishness. He's spent countless candlelit hours picking through texts devoted to the sword, countless hours sparring with them and crafting them, and even months after being rudely plucked from his homeland, he sometimes forgets that such knowledge is uncommon outside his time.

Thinking back to the weapons in his current collection, he says, "Aye, there are. The zweihander, for instance, a sword as long as some men are tall. 'Tis mostly for ceremonial purposes, but I assure you it can still wreak terrible havoc if in the right hands."

Firo raises an eyebrow and smirks a little at Hector's expression. It's one that Firo's pretty familiar with seeing on other people, though he mistakes it for Hector thinking him the foolish one. "I told you, nobody uses swords where I come from. And I'm stupid, okay?" Firo's sensitive about a lot of things, but not his intelligence.

"That big?" He shakes his head. "Doesn't sound like it could be very fast." He thinks back to his friend Berga; the man's massive and powerful, but Claire's always been quicker. Then again, Claire's in a class of his own.

As he always has and always will, Hector takes the response a shade too close to heart. A fleeting, almost child-like sense of guilt dulls the ever-present edge in his eyes, making him appear somehow younger than his twenty-five years. Remorse is by no means a quality for a proper Devil Forgemaster to have, but the thought beads away like water on glass, leaving only faint impressions on his mood; Hector doesn't consider himself a hand of Dracula. Not now, and hopefully never again. Softly, he places a hand upon his breast. "My apologies," he says, eyes falling shut. "I did not mean to offend."

After a deep breath, he nods and gladly diverts his attention to the more pleasant of their topics. "No, it is not. In the time needed to swing it, you may very well find yourself without your head. That, and zweihanders are quite exhausting to carry, let alone wield."

The massive sword obviously wasn't brought to clearing, but if Firo wishes, he supposes he could drag the heavy old thing from his cellar. It's not seen the sun since his time in the vampire's castle, after all.

Firo finds it somewhat flattering, actually, that Hector would think to apologize for that. But more weird; Firo's used to people not worrying about offending him, and he wasn't even bothered by the look. Swords being more interesting than apologies, Firo decides he'll just have to tell Hector to lighten up later.

Firo won't say it, but he can't imagine having to lug around a sword much bigger or heavier than the one he's holding right now. His raised eyebrows and incredulous look down at the sword in his hand probably say it all, though. He's stronger than his size and looks would suggest, but he's used to being quick and maneuverable, not weighted down.

He shakes his head and looks from the sword to Hector. "Then why's anybody use 'em? For flash?"

Hector offers an easy shrug before leaning back against the nearest tree. In the dawn of his apprenticeship, he would often ask himself that same question, his innocent mind unable to fathom why someone would have need for such a cumbersome blade. Even when he first glimpsed an ogre, he'd thought they were excessive. But the first time he was forced to fight and kill one of the lumbering, stupid beasts, he found himself wishing he could swap out his twig of a shortsword for something more substantial. It might have saved he and Cain several bruises and broken bones. "I have found they are best at home in the hands of decorative statues, but will not deny they are useful if you certain your enemy is clumsy and slow."

He chews the inside of his cheek for a passing moment before adding, "They is no doubt an intimidation factor as well."

Having never had to fight an ogre, Firo's still not entirely convinced. "If somebody's 'clumsy and slow' Mr. Yagu says it's better to use their own strength against 'em. People like that'll run right into a wall if you let 'em." Of course, in 'letting them' Firo might give them a little bit of help...

He returns his focus to the target, this time striking at a higher speed. His grip and handling aren't perfect, he knows, but there can't be much harm in going a little faster, right?

"On most instances," Hector begins, pleased to see that Firo feels comfortable enough to pick up his pace, "I would agree with that logic. However, at least in Valachia, there are few structures that can withstand an ogre's charge. 'Tis better then to cut them down before they have a chance to collapse a building and kill any others unfortunate enough to be trapped inside."

A few moments pass, during which he carefully considers the battle-ready swords resting nearby. Back home and under Hector's tutelage, it would be weeks--months, perhaps--before Firo sees anything but these blunted blades. But this wasn't home. And Firo already has experience with knife-fighting. It wasn't as if they were beginning from scratch. He sets his wooden sword on the ground, as carefully as if it were made of glass. "Would you care to try something sharper?"

Firo pauses, tilting his head back as he tries to imagine that. He's pretty sure none of the guys he's thrown were big enough to collapse a structure. "Guess that makes sense..." He's just glad he doesn't have to deal with that problem.

Again, Firo stops in his practice and turns to Hector. For a moment, he's so excited that he doesn't even think to try to hide it and he beams at Hector. "Would I?" A beat, and he remembers himself. "I-I mean, sure. That'd be nice."

Turning aside, Hector retrieves one of the honed swords, drawing it slowly from its scabbard and watching the sunlight dance across its glistening blade. But an instant later, his brows knit together, a thought occurring to him. Gloves. Examining others' uninjured hands isn't something intends to do, but he figures little harm can be done by being polite. And besides. Blisters are damnable things. Particularly to those who rely on their hands to fight.

He sheaths the sword and moves to fish through his pack again, eventually producing a pair of leather gloves, their palms worn and supple from regular use. Hopefully, they'll fit well enough if Firo chooses to don them. "You may use these too, if you wish."

[ooc: I'm so terribly sorry for the wait. ;_;]

Firo watches Hector unsheathe the sword with anticipation. He can't hide slight disappointment when he suddenly sheathes it again. "Huh?"

Ah, gloves. He relaxes when Hector brings them out, but holds up his hands to refuse.

"Thanks, but..." He shrugs. "I think the guys back home'd laugh at me if they saw me with those. I'll be fine." He doesn't expect a bunch of them to pop out of nowhere, but he still can't bear to do something that would embarrass him in front of them. Not that the gloves themselves are embarrassing, but the implication that he's not tough enough to go without them.

[ooc: Please don't apologize! It's totally fine. <3 ]

"Though I do not consider it a mark of weakness, I understand," he chuckles. And truly, he does. Life in Castlevania was a game, a perilous game of forcing down your competition by any means necessary, cheating or bluffing your way to the top if need be. Showing any sign of softness was madness. Four years had passed behind those blackened walls before Hector had risen to power. Four long, dreadful years before he could so much as think about making himself a pair of gloves.

Seeing as Firo declined, Hector gladly wriggles his fingers into the leathers and ties the cords at his wrists. It was good to be free of that wretched place.

Once more, he offers Firo the sword, hilt first this time. "Find your balance with it," he says, gesturing to the dummy. "'Tis double edged, and the impacts will feel slightly different than the wooden one."

Firo smiles. "Thanks." His life with the Martillos was pretty good and has gone a long way towards softening him up, but he'll never completely lose his survival instincts. And foremost among them is hiding any sign of weakness. Besides, even if the Martillos are decent guys, that doesn't extend to all of the people they deal with.

He takes the sword, nodding his gratitude as he adjusts his grip. Like with the wooden sword, his first few strikes are slow and cautious--and more clumsy than he'd like. This time, he picks up the pace sooner.

"How long've you been usin' these things?"

"'T'will be eleven years, come summer's end," Hector answers, not missing a beat. He retrieves the second sword for himself, ghosting his fingers over the intricate scrollwork tooled across the scabbard. As far as time goes, he knows that just over a decade isn't so long,--he recalls some enemy officers with twice that under their belt--but he feels his experiences in those years more than make up for it.

He looks up. "And yourself? How long have you fought with knives?"

Firo nods. A decade sure sounds long to him; he hasn't even been alive for three yet. "My Family started me with 'em pretty soon after we met. Gotta be about ten or eleven years by now, if I'm doin' the math right." He was around thirteen when they picked him off the street and his twenty-fourth birthday just passed. There were times when he tried to improvise knives before then, but that hardly counts.

He glances over his shoulder to smile at Hector for just a second; then he goes back to stab the target. "Guess we kinda got somethin' in common."

One of those rare, tiny smiles tugs at the corners of Hector's lips. "So it would seem." He unsheathes the sword with a flick of his wrist, his smile widening at the oh-so satisfying hiss of tempered steel sliding against leather. "Take whatever time you need, Firo, and we can spar when you are ready."

He then turns on his heel and crosses the clearing in long, relaxed strides, expertly flourishing the weapon as he goes. It's most unwise to spar without first warming up, after all.

Firo nods to signal that he's heard the offer. He takes his eyes off the target for a moment to watch Hector move, taking mental notes.

Firo's not wholly confident in his mechanics, but he knows that won't happen after a long while of practice. And what's the best way to practice if not in a fight? "I'm ready to go now. Just don't go too easy on me, all right?"

His breath comes quicker by the time Firo calls for him, and though sweat has yet to shine on his brow and he is physically unchanged, something different hangs about him, something darker. More sinister. All at once, the air in their half of the clearing feels thick and heavy, as it often does in the moments before a storm rages. Closer to Hector, it sizzles with devilish energies. Dracula's magics are invaluable in combat, but their power comes at a hefty price. The voices and nightmares are one thing; those can be bested with enough practice and determination. But nothing can stem the flow of dark energy that streams forth when he takes up the sword. Swiping the stars from the heavens would prove an easier feat.

Magic buzzing in his fingertips, Hector rubs the side of his neck. He pivots in place and regards Firo with notable hesitation. "…I shall not," he replies, not yet willing to draw unnecessary attention to the change. "But I will not aim to harm you, of course."

Well, that's... interesting. Firo has no magic senses of any sort, but his time in the criminal underworld has made him more sensitive than average to the kind of air someone puts off. He can't recognize the force that floods the clearing as dark energy, but even he can tell something's off. He blinks and looks up from his practice at Hector; for a moment, he thinks the man might be angry with him for something. But he doesn't look mad...

He shrugs a shoulder as he wheels to face Hector. Maybe a smarter person would take that shift in feeling as a signal to call off the sparring match, but that's just not in Firo's nature. He's sure it'll be fine.

"I'd appreciate that too." He raises his sword. "Ready?"

Hector's pleasantly surprised when Firo doesn't pale or shy away as so many others had, though he's quick to sweep the matter aside. Should it come up again, he'd consider yielding a detail or two, but for now, a pleasant spar was to be the heart of the day. He isn't keen on tarnishing that with dark, threadbare stories of his past.

That's a habit he's been looking to break.

Spreading his hands, he nods and breathes deep, regaining his composure. "Aye. As my guest, the honor of taking the first strike is yours, Firo," he puts forth, clearly untroubled by thoughts of potential injuries.

Firo can understand that desire to let less pleasant topics stay swept under the rug. Too well, probably; his tendency to keep quiet about important things has gotten him into trouble on a few occasions.

"You sure you're not just tryin' to figure out my strategy?" His tone is teasing, but Firo usually lets people attack first for that very reason. And so that he can claim "self-defense."

Despite that protest, he doesn't wait for a response before he darts forward and tries to swing up under Hector's guard. Like before, he's not using his full reach and he's not as fast as he would be with a knife.

Several vital skills have grown dull after spending the winter holed up in his cabin--his swordsmanship, Devil Forging, and physical endurance, to name a few--but thanks to his regular hunting trips in the forest, his reflexes are as keen as ever, and responding to Firo's attack is of no challenge. The air is shocked with a metallic clang as, quick as lightning, Hector steps aside and his sword comes down in a smooth, silvery arc. Rather than hooking the sword at the crossguard and flinging it aside, or stealing the split-second pause to drive the heel of his boot into Firo's stomach, he simply smiles. "I am quite sure," he says.

Though his voice and expression are as soft and cool as ever, the sun glints wildly in the blues of his eyes, glints like firelight catching on broken glass.