The twist of his lips is only brief, only faint. The full flash of his teeth is something much less than a smile, like the snap in the air she's often seen him take in battle.

It comes as naturally as every other instinct when approached with a drawn blade, even by an ally. One foot falls back half a pace, just enough to make space to draw his hand-and-a-half, before he throws himself forward carelessly to meet her sword with a crash. His brothers had despaired for years to force him into proper form, but the simple rush of body and blade had always served him well enough.

Being convinced of his own immortality had and had not helped, clearly.