WHO: Fitcher + Wysteria + Flint & You WHAT: Catch-all WHEN: Firstfall-ish WHERE: Kirkwall and stuff. NOTES: Will update if necessary. Feel free to grab me if you want a specific starter/wildcard me, baby.
[ And he attacks, then, moving forward confidently and capably. His focus is clearly on the offensive, winning it and maintaining it, not letting Flint's strange leer throw him off. By now he's seen the smile enough times that it's lost some of its power. ]
[The flash in his face meant to reply to that is promptly eclipsed. and that open quality to his stance - the straying line of his arm so designed for heavy assault - snaps shut like trap as Byerly makes his move. The heavier sword batters that first offensive strike in a blatant attempt to turn him off the concept of assault. But without having Byerly on his heels to begin with, the follow through isn't quite so decisive or swift and Flint is forced back into that more upright and squared form to keep up.
This more so than the previous two rounds are a play of strength and speed, a push and a pull punctuated by the crack of steel. A clever lunge meets an edge on parry, a sturdy flick of the wrist designed to turn a riposte into an opening worth exploiting catches the blade a fraction too late to create a space wide enough to take advantage of. Clang, clang, clang. It would be undignified to describe it as two goats deciding how to butt heads.
And yet there is something distinctly investigative in how Flint cedes ground by degrees, testing first playing from one direction and then the other in an attempt to determine from which direction Byerly is slower.]
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no subject
Will you kiss me again?
[ And he attacks, then, moving forward confidently and capably. His focus is clearly on the offensive, winning it and maintaining it, not letting Flint's strange leer throw him off. By now he's seen the smile enough times that it's lost some of its power. ]
no subject
This more so than the previous two rounds are a play of strength and speed, a push and a pull punctuated by the crack of steel. A clever lunge meets an edge on parry, a sturdy flick of the wrist designed to turn a riposte into an opening worth exploiting catches the blade a fraction too late to create a space wide enough to take advantage of. Clang, clang, clang. It would be undignified to describe it as two goats deciding how to butt heads.
And yet there is something distinctly investigative in how Flint cedes ground by degrees, testing first playing from one direction and then the other in an attempt to determine from which direction Byerly is slower.]
no subject
Why is he smiling like that? [he whispers to the nearest person.]