milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The cold weather didn't deter Michael from going outside. He had some excess energy to work off.
Losing his edge didn't appeal to him, particularly now. Or at any time.

At the far end of the lake, he'd found a clearing, rocky ground, slightly uphill and out of sight of the water. Practicing. Exercise.
He started with the basic block and strike combinations he knew, then on to more difficult patterns. A bit later, he switched to the simple
sword-drills he'd learned so far. He'd grown accustomed to the weight and feel of it, and the weapon appealed to him. Of course, guns did too, but they had their limits.

Botherable. (For now, though threads will of necessity have to be slowtimed today)

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We'll be honest, here. Martin, the bastard son of Random, is never going to match his uncles in the art of war. He wasn't let out into the wide, wide Shadows without being less than hopeless, but the kid (he's sixty) isn't a legendary type in the making.

Which doesn't mean that he's not better than just good, either. When you're evaluating yourself against people with tens of thousands of years of experience you're bound to come off looking like shit.

So the bitter green eyes that watch the alien know what they're looking at. That would account for the small smile on his lips.

War, or hunting/culling, was Michael's world, or a large portion thereof. The Wraith are fiercely competitive, for survival's sake. They're also not prone to giving a damn about reputations or legends.
If one's skills allow one to live, or to accomplish the needed purpose, that is what counts.
It doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy sharpening his skills, or acquiring new ones.

He notices Martin after a moment, pauses, and lowers his blade but doesn't set it aside yet.
"Hello."

He

"Hello." His lips quirk just that much farther up, "New to sword work, how's it feel?" Introductions are...something he doesn't forget. He just ignores them often.

"Slow, but gaining," Michael replies. He's not too worried about formalities.

"If you change your grip, just a little, you'll have a better grasp." It isn't, quite, a human technique. The movements that his hands make to illustrate it put the sowrd in something that requires more brute strength...but also gives more power behind a strike.

Michael watches, then shifts his hands to mimic Martin's grip. The difference is palpable. He nods. "Got it...and thanks." He shifts to a
'guard' stance, bringing the blade up.

He gets a grunt in return, a little bitter and a little dark, and the blond man continues to watch. He's dressed casually, turtle neck and jeans, and has old scars on rather every visible surface of skin.

The scars are worth a second look. Familiar looking pattern, that. If he's right, bitterness is probably not surprising.
He has a second weapon, both for strictly practice; it lies on
a nearby rock, still sheathed.
"You a soldier by trade?" Michael asks casually.

"Farmer." He corrects, laughing once. Most of the scars are, actually, bite wounds. Most of them are from semi-human or human mouths, "Farmer by trade, but you can't live with my fucked-up excuse for a family and not learn to fight."

"Oh, and doesn't that sound like my relatives." Michael grimaces. "Farmer? Where are you from?"

"Rebma. Or Amber, depending on your choice of suicided-when-I-was-an-infant mother or seduced-her-and-ran father." Yeah. Not bitter at all.

"...Heh. In your shoes, I'd have preferred 'none of the above.'" The whole concept of parents is a bit skewed where Michael's from.
"Where or what is Amber?"

"In my universe? Its the only real city. Everything else, every other world, is just a shadow of it. So, without being the least fascitious, its the center of everything." Truth is? Michael is a hell of a lot closer to human than the man he's talking to.

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