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(no subject)

Who: Hector and Firo
What: Sparring!
When: May 3rd
Where: Hector's training ground
Summary: Hector and Firo play around with swords
Rating: PG for mild (affable) violence

Firo follows Hector through the trees until they stop in the training area. Hands on his hips, he looks over the area before turning back to Hector.

"Pretty nice place you got here. Do you use it a lot?"

It seems a little strange to him that someone would want to go to an area so isolated to practice. Most of his life, he's trained and sparred in areas with people always nearby--then again, solitude's hard to find where he's from.

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"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.

Normally, Hector would hold his head high and deny that he could make use of a short rest, but his mood is thankfully fair today, and he swallows his pride, gesturing to the satchel still resting at the foot of a tree. "I would not refuse a drink or a few moments of rest. I believe I have an extra skin of water with me, should you have need of it."

Firo smiles, both relieved and thankful that Hector's willing to take a break. And willing to admit it.

The smile is quickly replaced by an absolutely puzzled look. Coming from times centuries apart, there are some terms that just sound plain weird to Firo. "...You drink water outta skin?"

"Only when I am away from home," Hector answers, checking his sword for dirt before sheathing it and resting it against the tree. "Glass is difficult to travel with, you see. Bottles are awkward to carry and prone to breaking. A properly cured and washed skin or bladder, in my experience, is much more practical." He's fully aware that he could merely gather the pieces of a broken bottle, tap into his magic, and repair it as necessary, but he feels that's more hassle than it's worth. Even then, he would have lost whatever water had been inside it.

That, and it doesn't occur to him that more proper means of carrying drinks have been invented since his time.

Rising from his pack, he extends one of the two vaguely canteen-shaped skins toward Firo. The edges have been hardened and laced with a leather cord, its mouth corked like a bottle of wine.

Once he sheaths his weapon, Firo follows Hector and, after a moment of inspection, takes the skin of water. It's not the kind of thing he'd think to carry water in. He shrugs. "Doesn't look that weird. Thanks."

He uncorks it and takes a drink. "You're pretty fast with that sword." Firo probably won't get much closer to admitting that Hector could really wear him out.

Praise is something meant for other people. Better people. All the same, he isn't willing to insult Firo by invalidating his opinion. So, Hector paints on a false, but convincing smile before knocking back a mouthful of water, accepting the compliment with the same refined grace he's practiced for years. "Were I not, I would have perished at quite a young age."

He drinks again and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "You have talent as well. Should you choose to pursue the art of the sword, I am confident you will excel."

[ooc: Sorry for the wait!]

Edited 2014-06-25 03:13 (UTC)

Firo nods. Though he never had to take up a sword (and never had the opportunity until now), he's no stranger to needing to defend himself.

He blinks at Hector, startled. "Oh, um... thank you." Firo isn't much better at taking compliments than Hector seems to be. He shrugs as he takes another drink. "I've had good teachers, I guess." Both the ones who taught him about weapons in general and Hector.

[ooc: No need to apologize! :)]

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