lucetilogs | (no subject)

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.

Firo has no doubt that Hector could have done something nasty after blocking--Firo himself would have considered it--but he just smiles back. He's used to taking blows and defeats in the name of learning.

"Are you sayin' that 'cause there's not much of a strategy or what?"

While he knows it's silly when there's a real challenge, Firo doesn't have a problem with chattering away during a sparring match. Especially one where he doesn't have a prayer of besting the opponent.

If Hector doesn't make a move first, Firo will take a step back to start circling.

"And are you suggesting that to throw me off of said strategy?" he counters, head canted ever so slightly.

When he'd tutored a handful of Dracula's troops, he went in knowing they lusted for blood and carnage, that many of them possibly harbored intentions to make an attempt on his life. Firo, on the contrary, has displayed neither of those things. It's strange, not having solid reason to fear for his life, and for a cursory moment, Hector isn't sure what to do next. He's hesitant to play on the offense. Though the outflow of magic rarely taints his thoughts, oftentimes it makes him forget his own strength. He's sparred with Isaac, of course, but that means little here; a Forgemaster's body was considerably stronger than the average human's, much more resilient.

And so, taking the safe route, he applies pressure to Firo's sword, an unspoken challenge for him to retaliate. Slowly, subtly, his legs tense, preparing to dash left or right or to leap into the air when the next strike comes.

"Who, me?" He blinks and tries to look the picture of innocence. The grin on his face makes that difficult. "C'mon, I'm not smart enough to try that." That, at least, Firo believes.

At the pressure, Firo lets his sword drop lower and springs backwards to try and pull it away. If Hector doesn't sneak into the gap Firo leaves, he'll draw the blade up again to defend. Firo's deceptively strong for his size and looks, but he's more used to using speed and finesse in battle. Besides, perhaps that's a surprise best saved for later.

As far as Hector is concerned, a good sparring match tests far more than technique. Strength was involved too, as was endurance. His eyes flick toward Firo's hand and wrist, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a fleeting smirk. Why not test both? In the blink of an eye, he swiftly presses forward, attempting to hook his blade beneath Firo's and press upward, put a strain on his arms. Should his plan - if it could even be called as such - work, he'll then execute a series of controlled swings, his ultimate goal being to goad Firo toward the edge of the clearing or disarm him.

Though most of his Forgemaster's uniform is folded and stored in a cobwebbed corner of his cellar, he continues to wear the boots, having grown fond of them for a number of reasons. A careful observation could those high heels as a potential weakness. Particularly since Hector's abilities are still being revived. If Firo's looking for a viable opening, that's a good place to start.

Firo can't get his sword out of the way of Hector's, so he's forced to deal with that pressure. He briefly reflects that he should be grateful Hector's not just flicking the weapon out of his hands--though he doesn't doubt he could. Firo presses down, trying to show that he can fight Hector's strength.

The swings begin to force him back as he blocks them. Much to his shame, he can't parry like he would if they were using knives or their hands, so he's forced to block, his arms getting a little more tired with each clash of swords.

He does notice Hector's interesting choice of footwear... Firo doesn't know if his idea is quite allowed in this arena, but hopefully Hector won't be too mad by what Firo's about to try. It's a big risk, too, so Firo hopes Hector won't take his head off. Quick as he can, he sinks to the ground, holding his sword above his head to try and block. As he reaches the ground, he tries to sweep Hector's heels with his leg.

[Ooc: Sorry for taking so long!]

There had been no surrendering in the castle. A man fought until he was either killed or could no longer heft his sword, ax, or whatever other crude weapon he'd managed to get his bloody hands on. Only when training with Isaac had Hector felt safe enough to submit and catch his breath - sinking down and raising his sword just as Firo is. That in mind, his first instinct is to assume this is but a means of yielding; he's mildly disappointed.

Until his feet are swept out from under him, that is.

Years ago, he would have reacted with grace, or dodged the move entirely, twisting away into some sort of aerial feat that shouldn't have been possible while wearing those boots. Now, the possibility of submission fresh in his mind, he's caught off guard and pitches toward the ground, having barely enough time to break the fall with his free hand. He raises his blade as he attempts to get back to his feet, ready to parry whatever Firo might send his way.

But there are no hard feelings. In fact, his fleeting disappointment has been swiped away, and his grin's returned.

[ooc: It's alright~]

Firo's pleased that it actually worked and can't hide the grin on his face. He's sure that little move won't mean much in the grand scheme of things, but he'll take his small victories.

"I'm not breakin' any rules, am I?" He asks laughingly, not really concerned given that Hector's smiling too.

Firo follows Hector as he moves and tries to slash at him from the side. This time, he goes too wide, creating an unguarded opening.

"Of course not," Hector chuckles. No matter the occasion, actions have always spoken louder than words, and the fact that Firo took the offensive without outside suggestion is pleasing, if anything's to be gleaned from his laugh. His sword flashes out to parry the blow. "I require only that you keep no intent to kill or injure. Anything else? 'Tis fair game."

"Nice." He grins and tries to hit Hector again, this time cutting lower. He never knows how careful people are with their sparring rules--though he should probably ask before trying anything risky.

"Definitely not aimin' to kill anyone. I don't think you'd let me, anyway."

"No, I would not permit you to harm me." Once again, Hector reaches out to block, twisting away and then rising to his feet. His breath comes quicker now, and the muscles in his sword arm are afire. He grins again and tilts his head toward the edge of the forest, off toward the familiar lurking somewhere amid the sun-dappled trees. "And neither would Cain."

He makes a clean swipe toward Firo's thigh. Quickly, but not too quickly, so there's still plenty of room to turn his blade aside.

"Cain?" Firo glances off at the trees for a moment. The familiar Hector was talkign about? "They've got names?"

Firo shuffles backward and sweeps downward with his sword to block that. He appreciates that Hector gave him time to block, but the weight of the sword is difficult for him to pull back quickly. For a moment his guard is stuck low, leaving his top open.

"Aye. They are of my own creation. 'twould be ill-fitting not to name them." Hector sweeps his hand across his brow, the back of his glove glistening with sweat. Were he facing off against someone like Isaac, he would seize the opportunity to shift the fight to his favor, but now, as polite a host as he's ever been, he merely turns a soft eye on his ~~guest~~sparring partner. "Do you tire, Firo?"

Firo's arms are burning like they're about to fall off, but he forces himself to laugh at Hector's question. "Tired? Me?" He's probably overdoing it. "'Course I'm not. Why? Are you?"

...He might not mind a break.