Amelia Royer (Ronsam) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rogueinladysclothing) wrote2016-10-16 04:03 pm
rogueinladysclothing) wrote2016-10-16 04:03 pm
Friendship is full of bumps and bruises [Tagging Mordred]
The nice part about being friends with someone who's equally bad at it as you are, is that the friend doesn't ask questions when you suggest strange things.
Like using each other for weapons practice.
After an hour of shooting rocks at a tree while Mordred read over his orders again, Amelia pushes herself to her feet and holsters her slingshot. They've been waiting for a messenger to arrive, but with midday long since past, it's beginning to look like the new orders her companion was meant to receive aren't coming today.
"Come on," she says softly, trying to lessen her disturbance of the quiet of the woods they're in. "We've been sitting for too long today. I need to practice or I'm going to lose my finesse." With that vague statement settling in, she draws her rapier and gauche, nodding to the open, flat space next to their makeshift camp. "Draw your weapon and fight me."
This is a terrible idea, but somehow that doesn't occur to her in her boredom.
Like using each other for weapons practice.
After an hour of shooting rocks at a tree while Mordred read over his orders again, Amelia pushes herself to her feet and holsters her slingshot. They've been waiting for a messenger to arrive, but with midday long since past, it's beginning to look like the new orders her companion was meant to receive aren't coming today.
"Come on," she says softly, trying to lessen her disturbance of the quiet of the woods they're in. "We've been sitting for too long today. I need to practice or I'm going to lose my finesse." With that vague statement settling in, she draws her rapier and gauche, nodding to the open, flat space next to their makeshift camp. "Draw your weapon and fight me."
This is a terrible idea, but somehow that doesn't occur to her in her boredom.
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Amelia might have a terrible idea, but at least it's not reading more Latin.
"Fight you?"
Not that he isn't already beginning to set aside the papers. Not that he isn't already shifting to rise to his feet, letting his cloak drop to the ground.
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She takes a moment to remind herself of the weight of the weapons in her hands, swinging them one at a time before dropping into a defensible fighting position. Catching his gaze with her own hazel one, she lets go of a silent breath before raising her chin the slightest bit in a nod.
"Draw your weapon. Show me what terrifies your enemies so much."
...such a bad idea, considering she knows full well the look in his eyes that stops the hearts of men.
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"That I cannot promise." As ever, his voice is frank, largely with the earnestness of youth. "I would not see you fall."
And that, as much as anything else, was what had the Saxons murmuring about him--what had the other Britons murmuring about him, really. He would fight until he was dead, they were all certain, and it seemed he would continue to refuse to die.
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A small, devious glint appears in her eyes. She's seen him fight. She knows how he moves and that he'll be relentless if she gets him going. And right now? That's what she wants. A real fight and a distraction from her boredom.
Her footsteps come to a halt just a few feet in front of him. "Come now, at least give me a taste. We've never crossed blades before."
holy crumbs bad job me apparently i only tagged this in my mind?? sorry!
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.
No worries! Between being sick and work this past week and a half, I've been busy too >>;
Mordred is none of those things when he fights. As their blades connect with the loud crash of metal against metal, her feet slide across the grass under the sudden force of his strength. He's going to be reckless in this, she knows, but how is never certain. He's unpredictable and wild and the thrill of facing that pulls a grin across her face. This will be a hard fight for both of them, but she's eager for it.
Pushing back against his blade, she takes a step forward and adds the short gauche to the mix to force his blade off to the side. She follows the movement of the blades to get close and then shoulder checks him in the chest to force him back a few steps. Her grin widens as she settles again into her defensive stance.
"A good start," she quips, raising her blades, "but you let me get too close. Don't hold back with me - I know how to take care of myself."
hope you've been well since all that, lovely!
This is how a body ought to live. This is how a creature like him ought to be kept.
He doesn't remotely wait for her to finish speaking as she lifts her weapons again. (He ought to be actually learning, the back of his mind that sounds like Gawain nags, with this chance against unusual defenses. That will bleed away quickly enough.) Two hands on the sword this time and a sharp swing toward her middle.
The sick is gone but the work remains. Curses! XD
"Yes. Yes! Like that!"
Taking a step back and away, she jumps to the side when Mordred inevitably has to follow the momentum of his weight being thrown about in this way. She turns quickly to follow him and brings her rapier down and across his body in a long slash from his left shoulder to his right hip. An easy move to parry, but it's only the beginning of what should be an interesting match.
small favours :')
He isn't generally the sort of man to parry. It isn't care for himself that brings his arms up into a high septime to parry the slashing. Even without heavy armour, it's never a question of protecting himself from the inevitable hurts and damage.
What's the good of being invulnerable if he's always trying to keep himself alive?
So it isn't to defend himself that he throws up his sword. It's to bring a good angle to his blade for a sharp thrust down, point aimed squarely for Amelia's belly.
Indeed. <3
Not that she's trying for that, of course.
The thrust down toward her midesction is caught with her gausche as she turns her body away from the move. Flashing him a smirk, she bends her knees to move down and forces his blade upward with her short blade, turning to the left and under their raised hands as she does so. As she comes back around she reaches out with the rapier in her right hand. The movement releases the pressure she was holding on his blade, which makes the end of it connect with the strands of her hairpin. A light, musical sound rings out, one that completely contradicts the sound of clashing steel.
It's a dance, the way she moves about the battlefield. Graceful and controlled, even if each movement is decided only seconds before its executed. It makes her a sight to behold - and one for her enemies to fear.
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The soft sound on his lips is the huffing frustration of a wild dog more than anything else. His weight is thrown into arching their crossed blades down again, shoulder angling to slam against hers.
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As he advances on her again, she pulls her blades close and tumbles to one side, rolling to her feet with ease. She readies her blades for whatever blow he tries to land next before turning the gauche over in her hands and trying to thrust the pommel into Mordred's stomach. It won't wound him, but if she can knock the air from his lungs, she can make it a more interesting fight.