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[ OPEN ] Well I can't stand to be with myself, this liberation's seemingly rare
WHO: Zevran and Various
WHAT: Zevran sparring and dealing
WHEN: Throughout Drakonis
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Violence, swearing, usual Zevran Content Warnings Apply. Open prompt below, poke me on plurk for a closed starter. Prose or actionspam welcome!
WHAT: Zevran sparring and dealing
WHEN: Throughout Drakonis
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Violence, swearing, usual Zevran Content Warnings Apply. Open prompt below, poke me on plurk for a closed starter. Prose or actionspam welcome!
As much as he'd protested Alistair running off on some mission in the west- the time apart gives him that much more chance to train. He'd been doing so privately in the barn, occasionally squaring off against Settimo when they both had the time and patience for Settimo's paranoia and Zevran's over-adjustments for the blind side. Learning to fight with only one good eye is slowly driving Zevran to frustration. Settimo could not come at him hard enough to be a challenge, he could not learn his new limitations without a solid effort on both their parts.
Setting aside his vanity he takes to the training grounds- but working on stuffed dummies is only good for so much. Soon enough he is picking out soldiers and rogues to come at him in the dirt circle. Day to day it goes much the same. Zevran stands with bad eye covered and his swords, with his hands, with a single short sword and calls any that would step up to help him regain his awareness. It is, to be honest, slow going. More often than not if his opponent has any manner of skill he ends up on his ass. But he grits his teeth, stands, and goes at it again. And again. Afterward he recovers with the highlight of his training- a bucket of water to sluice off the sweat and grit of the day. Whether it's the relief the cold brings or the appreciative looks it tends to earn? He doesn't say. But thus he spends his days, training himself or wrestling with the fledglings, who will offer their own commentary and catcalling in Antivan during his other matches.
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Mockery, was it? Obi-Wan was human, held himself with a particular bearing, an air of authority and nobility that was warning enough. Teasing the one eye'd elf by insisting on doing such sparing blindfolded- it was not so unfamiliar a thing. He'd seen it before, played at it before in Antiva. Yes Ser, no Ser, let me try again Ser.
Frustration was already bitter on his tongue, but he settled. Shifted enough to unhook a scarf from about Vita's very fine neck and wrap it around his eyes. Fair is fair, if this was what the man demanded, this was what they'd do. Even if it was easier to open ones eyes when not blindfolded, his fledglings would warn him accordingly were there foul play. Tuning out the sounds of the yard took a moment, slowing his breathing, steadying it, making him still and silent as the Crows demanded of him ages ago- this was instinct.
When all the world narrowed down to the heartbeat in his chest and Obi-Wan's before him, the soft rush of breath, he moved. Light and silent, down to the left, hand snapping out at center mass.
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It was a beautiful skill.
But it wasn't sound that guided Obi-Wan's hand. It was a feeling, instinct perhaps, but more than old memory; precognition like flickers of light, too fast to perceive. They came and went as impulses, gut feelings, and obedient to long training and practice, he listened to them.
Obi-Wan's hand snapped out, and seized Zevran by the wrist, lightning fast and pulled him across, moving with momentum to catch the strike and turn him aside. Obi-Wan dropped as he moved, seeking to upend Zevran over his own center of balance, and flip him onto his back, like a beetle.
no subject
And to pull.
By all rights he should be too disoriented to work but he saw in his mind's eye the circle, the dirt, the fence, knew roughly where he stood, knew the size and shape of his opponent. Crack his neck, bid the crow training- the rest of him focused on keeping his feet and hurling the man over his shoulder as he so kindly attempted to do to him.
no subject
Unseen, Obi-Wan grinned a smile that was half grimace. This Zevran-- He was good. He was very good. And this had been a good idea.
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Neither of them seems to be gaining any ground- but that was not the test.
Keeping in motion, keeping from being pinned- that was the test.
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Instead of pulling down again, he leapt for himself, turning the simple flip into a double, heedless of the fence, free hand flailing for purchase. Whenever they struck, whomever was on the bottom would hit hard.
He could feel, with a wince before gravity reasserted itself, that it would, inevitably, be himself. Not all victories come without pain, it would seem.
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With the difference in height and breadth and weight it became a matter of leverage. Finding it blind, holding him down without a hand or knee on his throat in an unsportsmanlike fashion? Took a moment. But find it Zevran did.
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And when, if, Zevran let him go, he comes up laughing; at his own expense, and at the outcome. Not bad, not bad at all.
"Yes, that serves me right," At least he's enjoyed himself, more or less, "Going hand-to-hand with an assassin. Thank you."
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Blaster-bolts couldn't be parried, and in most cases couldn't even be blocked. You'd have to have Force-given prescience to use it meaningfully, and even then, without a lightsaber....
"Most Jedi techniques are more focused on getting you back to your weapon."