[ Dear Marcus says, voice matched to his network correspondence; ]
One game at a time.
[ --with barely perceptible dry affect. He has opted against armoring up for this 'training', as it were, dressed instead in normal clothing, incongruous to the staff he wields in all but shades of grey. He holds it rather than wears it, ashy wood and the blade inset into one end.
This can be said for the Gallows: its proportions are generous. The courtyard they are in is nearly empty, and recent rainfall is wet in the cracks of the stone tiles. ]
I'll admit, I've not played this one with someone without magic.
[ But it dissolves into a wicked grin, full of impish glee as she dances a few steps away, leading him toward the more open parts of the training yard. ]
We're of a pair then, as I have never played it when someone wasn't trying to kill me!
[ She tips her head again and this time there is something uncomfortably reptilian about the way she peers at him. ]
I suppose you might try and kill me on purpose, but you must do a very good job of it, you know. I quite like you.
[ Marcus follows. Trailing her, and then stopping, and then moving aside, widening the gap between them in a way that could be perceived as a circling, seeing as he keeps his attention on her as he does so. ]
You've a generous spirit, to warn me so, [ he says, bringing his staff around to hold. His voice is naturally quiet, but still seems to carry well over the distance he's created.
He thinks over her words, and asks, simply, ] How many mages have you killed?
[ What humanity Poesia projects drops away inch by inch with every circling step they take, sharpening the look of predatory focus that threads in with the earnest delight. This is a game, if less intentionally deadly than she's accustomed to, and his question doesn't strike her as a suspicious one. ]
I hardly know. We were in the Plansene forest during that war, you see, and it did become very difficult to tell who was whom after a while.
[ The time in the forest was little more than a blood soaked fever dream. There's only one real, true certainty from those times, which she offers without hesitation: ] I did as my beloved ordered me.
[ It's true, 'suspicious' would be the wrong word. He doesn't seem angered, either, or shocked, or really any strong emotion at all given the lack of data with which he has to react to. Or, you know. He has a good poker face.
Something in this last thing she says pricks at his curiousity, but he's not motivated to ask in the blunt manner he otherwise might. No, she's made herself quite clear about the role this mistress played in her life. That doesn't mean there isn't more to understand, only that there are limits to how much questions and answers will bring to light.
Instead, he brings his staff down vertically, the butt of it striking damp flagstone.
Twin balls of fire erupt from the upwards point of the blade, splitting off, and flying straight for Poesia with the dull roar of magical flame burning off in the damp air. ]
[ The wordless shout Poesia gives is pure joy. Fire! Wonderful! She knew Marcus had been the right choice for this.
It's not dragon fire, but the heat still pulls at her blood as she twists, darting between the two fireballs. There is, of course, the urge to move closer, to strike back, to kill and rip and maim.
But then the game would be over. She tries to circle him instead, to see if he follows and what he does next. ]
[ Marcus does move, instinct kicking in to make up the lost distance she'd gained when she leaped forwards, circling counter to her steps. He flips the staff into one hand, blade pointed for the ground.
This time, fire bursts from that point, and ripples forward in a growing wall of flame headed for Poesia. He anticipates she will move, on account of not avoiding being burned to death. To simply go backwards is to beckon that exact fate. She must choose a side.
And he steps quick to the side she does not, a wall of fire roaring between them. ]
[ And side step she does. The wall of fire is a strong deterrent for only a moment. Then she's tumbling through it, flames catching on her hair and clothing, low to avoid any upward thrust of weapon he might try.
There's a familiar instinct thrumming through her to strike harder, to break his staff and spill his insides on the stone of the courtyard, to do it now now now n- She hesitates a moment too long and when she does lash out to block or counter, her strength is moderated. ]
[ She leaps through the fire which is startling enough in itself, but Marcus is not completely unprepared. Just a flash of surprise, showing the white around blue eyes and little else changing about his expression, but tension lashes swiftly through his posture as he brings up the bladed end of his staff.
It rings against her weapon of choice, a move clearly design to steer aside bladed weapons flying at him. For a moment, he regrets not wearing armor, actually, but less out of fear so much as a deeply threaded impulse that urges him to fight harder.
His next move is not an attack, but a sweep of an empty hand, and blue-green light flashes off his form in a pulse of protective energy. ]
[ She brought no weapons to this particular fight. Too much temptation to end the game permanently and quickly. Instead the staff blade is sidestepped, the edge running sleek and sharp against her shirt sleeve.
And she recognizes that flash, the sign that a mage was wrapped in a little magic shell that seemed so terribly resistant to rough handling. The desire for blood and gore surges ever louder and Poesia loves him quite a lot for giving her this.
There is a moment when a mage casts their little green shell when their stance is wide and open... And Poesia dances away, stepping lightly out of range of his staff blade. ]
[ He thinks it's recognition, that light in her eyes when he brings up the barrier, but it's difficult to tell in the moment. His posture does, as expected, ease a little out of its defensive closure, and she even gives him space.
The next sweep of his staff is not immediately obvious until firelight underfoot catches her attention. Fiery runic inscription flares up in a circle around her, and fire begins to ripple like silk, streaming in for that centre.
It's a dangerous spell for a sparring match, if she isn't quick enough to move. ]
[ There's a brief temptation to stay in the center, to see just how hot his fire burns, but instead Poesia jumps forward, just as the silky fire reaches the center and explodes upwards in a beautiful rush.
Heat at her back, prey to her front and she'll be ready for any attack of the bladed staff, grabbing for the hilt where staff meets blade. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i'm ready(?)
One game at a time.
[ --with barely perceptible dry affect. He has opted against armoring up for this 'training', as it were, dressed instead in normal clothing, incongruous to the staff he wields in all but shades of grey. He holds it rather than wears it, ashy wood and the blade inset into one end.
This can be said for the Gallows: its proportions are generous. The courtyard they are in is nearly empty, and recent rainfall is wet in the cracks of the stone tiles. ]
I'll admit, I've not played this one with someone without magic.
8DDD
How horridly practical of you, dear.
[ But it dissolves into a wicked grin, full of impish glee as she dances a few steps away, leading him toward the more open parts of the training yard. ]
We're of a pair then, as I have never played it when someone wasn't trying to kill me!
[ She tips her head again and this time there is something uncomfortably reptilian about the way she peers at him. ]
I suppose you might try and kill me on purpose, but you must do a very good job of it, you know. I quite like you.
no subject
You've a generous spirit, to warn me so, [ he says, bringing his staff around to hold. His voice is naturally quiet, but still seems to carry well over the distance he's created.
He thinks over her words, and asks, simply, ] How many mages have you killed?
no subject
[ What humanity Poesia projects drops away inch by inch with every circling step they take, sharpening the look of predatory focus that threads in with the earnest delight. This is a game, if less intentionally deadly than she's accustomed to, and his question doesn't strike her as a suspicious one. ]
I hardly know. We were in the Plansene forest during that war, you see, and it did become very difficult to tell who was whom after a while.
[ The time in the forest was little more than a blood soaked fever dream. There's only one real, true certainty from those times, which she offers without hesitation: ] I did as my beloved ordered me.
no subject
Something in this last thing she says pricks at his curiousity, but he's not motivated to ask in the blunt manner he otherwise might. No, she's made herself quite clear about the role this mistress played in her life. That doesn't mean there isn't more to understand, only that there are limits to how much questions and answers will bring to light.
Instead, he brings his staff down vertically, the butt of it striking damp flagstone.
Twin balls of fire erupt from the upwards point of the blade, splitting off, and flying straight for Poesia with the dull roar of magical flame burning off in the damp air. ]
no subject
It's not dragon fire, but the heat still pulls at her blood as she twists, darting between the two fireballs. There is, of course, the urge to move closer, to strike back, to kill and rip and maim.
But then the game would be over. She tries to circle him instead, to see if he follows and what he does next. ]
no subject
This time, fire bursts from that point, and ripples forward in a growing wall of flame headed for Poesia. He anticipates she will move, on account of not avoiding being burned to death. To simply go backwards is to beckon that exact fate. She must choose a side.
And he steps quick to the side she does not, a wall of fire roaring between them. ]
no subject
There's a familiar instinct thrumming through her to strike harder, to break his staff and spill his insides on the stone of the courtyard, to do it now now now n- She hesitates a moment too long and when she does lash out to block or counter, her strength is moderated. ]
no subject
It rings against her weapon of choice, a move clearly design to steer aside bladed weapons flying at him. For a moment, he regrets not wearing armor, actually, but less out of fear so much as a deeply threaded impulse that urges him to fight harder.
His next move is not an attack, but a sweep of an empty hand, and blue-green light flashes off his form in a pulse of protective energy. ]
no subject
And she recognizes that flash, the sign that a mage was wrapped in a little magic shell that seemed so terribly resistant to rough handling. The desire for blood and gore surges ever louder and Poesia loves him quite a lot for giving her this.
There is a moment when a mage casts their little green shell when their stance is wide and open... And Poesia dances away, stepping lightly out of range of his staff blade. ]
no subject
The next sweep of his staff is not immediately obvious until firelight underfoot catches her attention. Fiery runic inscription flares up in a circle around her, and fire begins to ripple like silk, streaming in for that centre.
It's a dangerous spell for a sparring match, if she isn't quick enough to move. ]
no subject
Heat at her back, prey to her front and she'll be ready for any attack of the bladed staff, grabbing for the hilt where staff meets blade. ]