thecapitol | [closed] though it won't change the world, you'll be more inclined

Entry tags:

[closed] though it won't change the world, you'll be more inclined

Who| Karkat and Éowyn
What| Spaced out crabs make for great sparring partners, right?
Where| The Training Center
When| Let's say a couple days ago.
Warnings/Notes| N/A

The problem with all this preparation for parades and interviews is that even when Karkat tries to get away from it, it all comes crawling back to mind, reeled in on the hooks its planted in his alien grey matter. This should have worked. It's worked other times! Just come down to the training floor, pick up a weapon, and go. There's always things he can practice, or skills to keep honed, especially when after every arena death he loses the muscle memory built up from before. It's frustrating it ways, but rewarding too; he learns each time how better to train the skill in the first place. It helps that Shepard is there to guide him each morning.

But here it's the afternoon, set after a school day, and Karkat's gaze is boring right through the training dummy he's set himself across from. He's ready otherwise. One hand holds a sickle, the other arm up defensively, ready to block his side for attacks a static target won't give. He's been standing like that for five minutes straight.

If one bothers to look, they might see his lips moving, mouthing words to some train of thought circling his mind.

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Éowyn has fallen into a steady routine, one that she can follow without having to think too hard about it, without long pauses to consider how every day is the same and none of them are lived in freedom. She rises with the sun (though that has less meaning in the artificial light of the city), grooms and feeds the horses in the stables, takes one or two out riding. She eats her lunch and dinner in the stables, too, sitting on haybales and taking stock of the place between bites. In the evenings, she works at her embroidery, or her tapestry, or her reading and writing in this place's script. But the rest of her day, from midday to the late evening, she dedicates to training. The Games aren't in the forefront of her mind in those times. The day will come, she thinks, when her skills are needed for a better cause. When that day comes, she means to be ready for it.

She's been training with that in mind for some hours already when she sees Karkat. Or, rather, when she notices him. She's been seeing him for some time, out of the corner of her eye as she struggles with a bow and arrows; it takes her a while to register, focused as she is on her work, that he hasn't moved.

She fires off the last of her arrows (which strikes barely at the edge of the target; she's improving but is still a poor shot) before turning on her heel, putting down the bow and striding over to him.

"A metal man won't make the first move," she assures him, her voice light but her eyes serious. "Perhaps you seek an opponent who will?"

It's a better cold opener than you've been staring into space for five minutes, are you okay?

He jolts at the voice. It's after that he sees her, turning the way he'd heard it, and realizes for certain that it was spoken at him. But of course it was, wasn't it? He's the idiot who's been staring into space for the last... How long has it been?

"I know that," he snaps off, pulling his features to model a scowl. "Is a guy not allowed to get distracted? Is there some rule here against having your thoughts take your attention for a little bit?"

But defensive and snippy as that may be, he's not hear to earn himself extra enemies. He eases his posture and expression alike, though his frown doesn't leave entirely.

"If you want to spar, fine. What's your weapon?"

He already has a sickle, so there's no point telling his. Still, he motions to follow, aiming to head over to one of the racks to exchange it for a sparring-safe practice model. It wouldn't do to actually injure her, irony though it is next to what they're training for.

She follows him in steady, measured strides, not rankling (much) at his snappish response. What little she knows of him told her to expect that, and, in any case, it only confirms to her that something's wrong. Nor does she rush to choose a weapon, her face unreadable as she considers.

At last, though, she decides to take the safest option, and wordlessly retrieves a sword and shield - she's been training enough to unerringly go for her favourite of each - before turning to face him.

"We all get distracted," she observes mildly, as she buckles on the shield. "I only thought to offer better training for us both, and I thank you for allowing it." Then, falling into a low, defensive crouch with her sword at the ready, "If you can kill me easily, I would sooner learn it now, and avoid you in the Arena."

With a smile that says she's mostly teasing about that, she waits for him to ready himself. If he doesn't make the first move immediately, she'll hold back a while herself, circling him slowly and gauging his defence.

A sword? And a shield? Karkat gawks with mouth just ajar as she buckles the latter, then closes it for a considering frown as she takes up her defensive stance. Times like these make him wish he had someone trained in sickle techniques to teach him. Sgrub may have provided a trial by increasingly larger and more dangerous fires, but none of them had this set of weaponry. Éowyn is no chalk lich.

"Honestly? If I ran into someone armed like that," he motions at her with the sickle, "I would try to avoid confrontation entirely. But for the sake of argument, let's presume I can't, and maybe the both of us will learn something."

He falls into his own crouch, moving more into the open space for the spar. If it were just a sword that would be one thing, but the shield complicates; that side is unfeasible to attack. Beyond defense, it could make its own weapon if she were to smack him with it, and that cuts off routes he might otherwise try.

With the right move he could disable a limb entirely, but the trouble is getting there.

He moves forward, quick and light on his feet, but it's less a real attack than a bat at her blade with the sickle's outer curve - meant to draw action, to see what she might do, and to better gauge her style of movement.

Éowyn blinks, and looks down at her weaponry for a split second, then sighs. "I did not think," she confesses. "I did but equip myself as I am best-trained. Yours seems the likelier in the Arena."

She steps in when he strikes, pivoting, letting the sword run along the sickle's edge until it finds a decent purchase before she pushes it aside. With the same almost experimental attitude as his attack, she follows up with a blow of her own, guarding with her shield as she slashes for his legs.

"I have not known many who fight with such a weapon, it must be said," she remarks, over the clash of their blades. "That may be to your advantage."

"I've only seen a sickle there once," he replies, but then she's countering. He leaps back quick, away from her range with no shame for the retreat. Better to keep his legs, even in the pretend of the spar. "I used to use them all the time before I came here, but ever since it's been knife, knife, other knife, more knives. I'm only keeping this up in the vague and unlikely hope that I'll get my prongs on one again."

He moves again now, circling around to the side she has her sword at. His moves are quick and light, either darting to evade or striking to deflect when he can; and if he can, he tries to hook her arm from the outer side with the curve of his sickle. He doesn't expect it will happen just yet - Éowyn fights like she's well at home with her weapons without even her say so - but it's worth trying still.

Éowyn matches his blows with less finesse but more force, using shield as well as sword to press home an attack. It's obvious, from the way she uses them, that she hasn't shaken her entrenched view of sword and shield as a single weapon; some of her sword blows only work to try and knock aside his sickle so she can force him back with the shield. Equally obvious is the offensive way she fights, countering with more attacks rather than purely defensive moves.

She narrowly dodges his attempt to catch her arm, although the tip of the sickle drags across her sleeve. Shifting her footing just slightly, she brings up her shield to try and snag the weapon, bringing the pommel of her sword around to try and strike him in the side.

"You may yet have good-fortune," she observes. "While I am like to find myself, at best, with a sword alone and perhaps some improvised shield."

This is exactly why he has to dodge. He's small, and for all his trollish sturdiness, he's still not the strongest of his species. Shield and sword make for heavy attacks, that shield especially, and he does what he can to move with the direction of her blows rather than oppose them directly.

In an ideal world, he'd be able to snag a joint of hers, something that in proper combat would likely end with a disabled limb. Sickles are hooks, after all, and that curved blade is good for severing connective tissue if not lopping off things entirely.

Here in the real world, though, she snags that curve with her shield. He steps in with it, uttering, "Fuck--" Then comes the pommel, right to the ribs. "Fuck!" Somewhere between startled and oh jegus my side, he lets go of the handle, stumbles the other way, and trips over his own two feet. "Ow!"

He's left in a sprawl, wincing and glowering up at her. "Trust me, whatever your name is, I think you'll have the advantage."

"Éowyn. My name is Éowyn." She leans her sword against a nearby rack, and, circling her left shoulder to loosen up the tension in that big knot of scar tissue, reaches out with her other hand to offer him a hand up. "I hope I did not hurt you too sorely. I thought it best not to hold back, when you pressed me so hard."

For a second he stays laying there, letting the initial pangs of the fall wear off. It's nothing bad, at least, and he takes her hand without issue when she goes to help him back up.

"Oof--No, I'm fine. I'm not that fragile," he quips, before going to set his sickle back where it belongs. "Like I said, I'm not used to fighting people with swords, let alone shields. You didn't catch me off guard so much as slam through it so hard I sprawled ass backwards out the window behind it. I didn't realize you could do that trick with your shield."

Weapon put away, he turns back to her and returns, "I'm Karkat Vantas. Consider me as much of an ally as you want in the arena, because I know better than to invite my own death."

Éowyn smiles at that, and nods. "I shall. There are enemies enough to face in that place, without creating more. You may count me as a friend, if you will, at least until the choice is taken from us." She smiles at him, then ducks her head to unbuckle her shield, cursing over the stubborn straps. "If you have need of more training, I could show you a little of what I know."

Karkat's face changes, not a smile, but relieved for her response. ~~The friend pile does not stop from getting taller.~~ "Exactly my point."

Training, though, has him lifting his eyebrows. "Like what? Sword training, or how to fight against one?" Then thinking, he amends, "I'll take either one. I've never had a sword to use, but I will sponge up any knowledge you have on how to not get myself rapidly dead when I'm near them."

"Either, or both." Éowyn's smile fades, back into her general expression of stony determination. "It would be no bad thing for me to train my own understanding of such weapons, and that may best be done by teaching others."

"Then I will gladly take both. Let the mutual learning be compensation enough, besides the base agreement not to turn it on each other in the arena." Karkat sets to stretching his arms for now. Whether she starts with one or the other, swords are heavier things, both to find against and to wield. Their little spar taught him that he has a whole lot to learn with either category.

"So what kind of world do you come from that you're used to using swords?" he asks now. Dave used them well enough, but he's known him long enough to gather that it was unusual for his society at the time.

"One where they are among our primary weapons." Éowyn shrugs, rolling her shoulders back. "I have heard it called primitive, by the people here. Yet steel served us well against the hordes of Mordor, and sent the shadows hissing back into the Void. I was raised on the song of swords, and the clatter of shield and spear. I know no other." She looks out over the training room, the racks of weapons from all settings, then back to Karkat with a little half-smile. "The Men of Harad and the South favour bows and javelins, the Dunlandings have their savage clubs and slings, and Orcs favour knives. Here, they have their guns, and of all the savage weapons I have seen, I have never seen a one so ill-inclined to nobility or skill."

Karkat snorts; he can't help himself. Nobility sure isn't anything the Capitol has, and her particular way of putting it - fancy, to his ears - makes it all the funnier to hear said out loud. He doesn't risk saying anything to it, though.

"Considering my species was conquering the galaxy for centuries, yes, I would call your world primitive," he says now. "But actual bladed weapons are perfectly valid and worthwhile if you know what you're doing with them. Threshecutioners used sickles; they were some of the deadliest trolls there were. We also had things like laser guns, so."

As for nobility, well... Karkat's opinions of his species and its old ways are complicated, and nothing he's getting into here.

"You want to teach me how to defend or swordfight first? Defending would probably be quicker to learn, but it only matters if I get a sickle first."

"To fight," Éowyn decides, after a moment's consideration, and starts towards one of the racks of swords. "You will be able to defend better in any case, when you know how it is handled and what moves to watch for. Here." And, selecting a sword that seems of suitable size and heft, she tosses it to him hilt-first, all business again. "Hold it high, across your chest. You can steady it with your other hand, if you must, but that's a single-hander."

Karkat squawks and dodges sideways; the blade clatters to the floor. "Could you maybe start by not throwing it at me?!"

Still, he bends to take it by the handle, and finds himself surprised again by the weight of it. She may know to choose the right heft, but a sickle is bound to be lighter than a sword, and that's to say nothing of the knives he more commonly is forced to use in the arenas. "Ugh, my arms are going to be sore by the end of this, aren't they?"

He straightens with it, testing it more as he holds it as she told him. Ultimately he does add his other hand to the grip. He'll worry about wielding it one-handed once his muscles are more used to working this way.

Edited 2015-10-27 23:33 (UTC)

She half-smiles. "If not," she tells him dryly, "one of us has failed." Then, retrieving her own sword, she tosses it into the proper grip with the ease of long practice and drops back into a crouch. "It helps to set your stance broadly, carry the weight down through your body. Keep your elbow bent, so it does not lock, and your shoulder loose - the weight bears more heavily on you if you tense against it. So, you see?" It's strange to teach, to have to question the things she has been practising so long they're part of her, but she's had some practice in it already since she got here. Even so, for someone who learnt her fighting in dribs and drabs, it's difficult to try and deconstruct it down into lessons. "Here, try to swing it. Loose and low. It isn't like a knife - you have to move with your whole body, from the hips through to the wrist, or you'll jar yourself."

He thinks about training with Shepard, what she's told him, what things hold between one thing and another. Not locking yourself up is a go to for everything, though the specifics are going to vary - and already do. He watches her carefully and does what he can to copy it, legs shifting to match her crouch, set apart. Bearing the weight properly will be a work in progress; the elbow thing is easy, but his shoulders tense up so often that it's natural to want to do it.

"I am definitely going to fuck this up," he mutters, but he tries still. A swing like she said - but it's too tense, the movement too mechanical, the turn of his hips more like an afterthought instead of smoothly connecting. There is hesitance in it, too: he can feel the heft of the sword as he moves, and fear of keeling over from it holds him back.

Éowyn watches him closely, but, as it turns out, it doesn't take close scrutiny to pinpoint what he's doing wrong.

"You're fighting against the sword," she observes, "not with it. The weight of the sword isn't something to be wrestled against, it's what makes it a strong weapon. Don't be afraid of it. Trust yourself not to fall, and the sword not to hurt you, and just... move with it. The worst that can happen is that you hit somebody, and even then, with a blunted sword you'll only bruise them."

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[closed] though it won't change the world, you'll be more inclined

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