CLOSED | i feel certain i am going to rise again

[limier]

WHO: Wren + Herian
WHAT: While you were expressing yourself healthily, I Studied the Blade
WHEN: Vaguely this month
WHERE: Gallows
NOTES: Annulment stuff, a total excess of hair

The hour's early, the grounds distant.

Time and isolation chosen to purpose, she's terribly aware of how this might appear to the unwary. Sixteen years and half a foot between them? To say nothing of the cause for their association.

That she's left off armor isn't an entirely a matter of perception, as little as she wishes to antagonize an already-tense bit of sparring. Most Amsel faces will not be so well-covered as mail and plate, and they both need the practice at it. 

There's a skin of water laid out upon the bench, beside a heavy key, a blade to match that already in her hand: hacking out the recursive motions of one yet warming up — perhaps harder than necessary.

"Knight-Enchanter," The sword dips to earth; she turns and seems a brief moment to look right through her. It recollects, though as she catches glimpse of that mauled ear, something pinches between her brows and doesn't quite leave.

It's one thing to speak with a ghost. It's quite another to see one risen.

(To try and bludgeon it with a length of steel.)

"I was — ah — uncertain which style you might lately favour," A short gesture to the bench, and if she just keeps treading these small mundanities, maybe they won't swell up to drown them both. "But the simplest edge often cuts sharpest, no?"

Best for everyone that these are dulled.

Comments

[limier]

She casts Herian a look. But she accepts the hand, hauls herself up with a short nod of gratitude. (Pride is for people who can afford to hobble their way through Val Royeaux.)

"Your technique has improved." It hardly bears stating that her own has declined. "The other blade,"

She limps to the bench, resists the urge to brace a hip. "If you've not been parrying with the hilt, it bears practice."

There's no reason the thing might not still be useful, even those times the Fade forces solid about her. Wren sets the sword aside to offer out a rag, jerks her chin again to the key.

"A cabinet, for reports. I imagine that might —" A wince as something twinges. "— Ah, might wait. For dinner. One would not wish to be overcome."

If that's wry, it's not at Herian's expense.