Closed [Fighters Pit] Quite A Pair (Isolde, Ethen, Kisetukai)

[Razkar]

Continued from here

86th Day of Spring
Anthonius Fighter's Pit
12th Bell

"Well, this'll go down like a lead bloody leaf..."

Gerard gave his opinion of the sparring session that was to unfold, if one could even call it that, as he watched the hesitant and rake-thin figure climb down into the Pit with the Myrian. Most jumped or leaped down to the sand, but this one? She climbed, each footfall careful and almost fearful, until first one and then another sandal kissed the dirt.

Razkar was waiting for her, hand ax tapping his leg patiently as he watched... sizing her up... face stony but eyes watchful, even a hint of compassion flaring in them for a moment.

Such a frail thing. How can the females here stand to be so weak?

"I take that you want to train with dagger, yes?" He said once Isolde was facing him, nodding to the dagger still clasped tightly in her had less she drp it again. "Well... not use dagger much. But think I can help."

He tossed the training ax away and with a sigh of iron on leather, unsheathed the kukri strapped to his chest. Long and curved, more like a miniature sword than a dagger, it's flat blade twirled as he got use to the grip of it, and he smiled quickly.

"Help train me, too. Not use kukri often. Give me chance to train. But first..." Razkar's other hand rose and he made the gesture he had seen many other barbarians make since he had arrived from the jungle: thumb and forefinger ribbing together, back and forth, as if counting money. "... must pay for lesson, hmm? Ten gold and I teach much. Or nothing and I at least hep you hold blade so not cut own throat..."

He waited until she replied and it was in that waiting that a shock rippled through him quickly. Woe t his manners in in barbarian lands, without strong females to remind him of them! Here she was, ready to pay him and fight a warrior of Myri, and he had yet to even ask her name.

Clearing his throat a little awkwardly, he nodded respectfully to the pale girl.

"I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, mistress. And you are...?"

[Isolde Seibold]

"I take that you want to train with dagger, yes? Well... not use dagger much. But think I can help. Help train me, too. Not use kukri often. Give me chance to train. But first... must pay for lesson, hmm? Ten gold and I teach much. Or nothing and I at least help you hold blade so not cut own throat..."

It was a hard thing for Isolde to look the tall --gods, he towered over her-- man in his eyes, which seemed so dark that they were black, glinting and glimmering with a foreign sort of shimmer that she could not hope to understand. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, she wasn't looking long... he dropped the ax and the Nuit breathed out a sigh of relief... until he reached to the strange harness wrapped around his chest and unsheathed, with a metal whisper, an actual blade. Immediately the Nuit took a step back, own puny dagger clutched tightly in her hand, arm held in close and tight to her side. Gods, what was she doing? It was reassuring to her to think that he admitted that he was not the best at using his own weapon... but come'on, was he serious? He said he would take it easy on her, so he gets rid of his practice weapon and brings forth a real blade? Gods, even if he was inexperienced at using the strange, wicked blade that he was holding in his hand... he was no doubt more than a match for her.

So what was she doing, silently sliding the leather knapsack from her shoulders to plunk it on the ground, drawing it open, rummaging around for golden coins with numb, fumbling fingers? 10 GM. Ten. She was insane, she really was insane, gods help her. As she sorted through her pack, one could hear a peculiar clinking, not as sharp as the sound of metal-on-metal, a duller noise. If one had a vantage point, they would see her arm snaking through a peculiar assortment of 7 small, simple clay pottery jars, nestled among her other possessions, their mouths sealed carefully, very carefully with wax and cloth. Then the Nuit's hand found the bottom of the pack, the coins resting in a pile there, willy-nilly, and she grabbed a fistful, counting out ten shining gold ones before dropping the rest quickly back. She drew the strings taut to hold the mouth of the knapsack together, picking up the bag and placing it carefully to the side, against the wall. Gold Mizas clenched in one hand. Shining silver dagger clenched in the other.

The Nuit forced herself to walk back over to him, hoping her legs weren't shaking so badly that her knees were knocking together, and stiffly held out her hand, and for some reason it looked so small and pale compared to the ten glittering Mizas. She really hoped that he wouldn't notice the coolness of her grasp as he took the coins, and she was already busy backing away when he spoke once more.

"I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, mistress. And you are...?"

The Nuit's mouth twisted, and her expression froze, eyes wide, fingers grasping tightly around the hilt of the dagger. His name, Razkar of the-- of the Shorn Skulls? Well, that was bad enough. But then he slipped in what she could only assume was an honorific, and the title fell gratingly on her ears, and she would have gone pale had she been able to. Before she could think her mouth was responding, and she trilled out in her shaking voice, the tone gone high and hurt, "Pl-Please. I-I'm sorry, but d-don't c-call me th-that." Her mouth had gone dry again, and the word actually stung her --mistress like bees in her ears-- though gods knew that had not been his intention. She rushed to correct her statement, and her voice dropped back to its regular pitch, sounding apologetic, "Pl-Please. Just call me-- call me Isolde."

Then what was there to do but stand in front of him, trying not to stare too hard at all the scars, or at the wicked blade in his hand, because she certainly wasn't going to be watching his face too closely. Rather than meet his eyes she took in his own grip, squeezing her fingers tightly around her dagger, not knowing whether or not she should keep it sheathed.

Receipt-10 GM

[Razkar]

Doesn't sound like coins...

Razkar frowned minutely as a strange... not chinking, more... clunking, as if of masonry or clay, emanated from the girl's knapsack. But then the steady stream of glittering gold was poured from one hand to the other, and he cast the idle thought from his mind. Grimacing softly, his dark, scarred hand weighed the coins, making them jump and dance as he tossed them lightly... then he nodded.

"Good." Over a flow of stammering and uncertainty, he finally got her name, too, and nodded his respect as to her sharing it. "Pleasure to meet, mis... ah... Is-ol-de."

He tasted the name, lips moving silently a few times as he digested it. These barbarian names, they seemed to... roll off his tongue, like water or exhalations. So many of them he found soft, like the names of flowers, but he had been fooled before by such presumptions. He flashed a quick smile at her again and nodded to her weapon.

"Now... start with way you stand."

He stepped back from her and gestured to her knife with his own blade. "Remember how I told to hold?" Her fingers shifted around the hilt and he nodded. "Good. Now..."

Razkar bent his knees, left foot forward, his left hand held a little in front of him, but his right hand, holding the kukri, closer to his side.

"In fight, keep blade close when not make attack. Stop enemy from knocking blade out hand or knocking blade away from you so cannot use." He tensed his hand so she could see it nestling by his ribcage, muscled and tattooed arm ready to stab or slash as he had to... then he waved his left hand a little. "This hand? Use this to block, or to punch. Keep knees bent so can move..."

Keeping his position he inclined his head a little at Is... no... at his student.

"Now you do."

[Isolde Seibold]

The Nuit didn't know what she had expected, but she certainly hadn't thought that the teacher --her teacher now, she supposed-- would be so... polite. Not many bothered to be so courteous to the young-looking woman, not once they had caught sight of her deathly pallor and smudged eyes, not once they had figured her for-- for what she was. But this Razkar of the Shorn Skulls didn't seem agitated by her at all, and in fact he was being almost... well, would it be too far to call it friendly? Perhaps she shouldn't venture that far... though, once again, compared to the norm he really was being something of a gentleman. This was completely unexpected, and a little bamboozling. The change was knocking her through a loop. Especially after having seen him lose his temper. She was having trouble reconciling this man with the snarling, pacing one from before. "Pleasure to meet, mis... ah... Is-ol-de." The Nuit nodded back at him as he tried out her name, and... found herself relaxing inch by inch as he started at the beginning, with stance and grip. This was good. No stabbing and cutting and he was keeping that sharp, curved blade of his away from her, at least for now. She even dared risk a look up to his black eyes once more, before focusing on his hands and his words.

"Now you do."

There was a moment where the Nuit stood frozen, and then she squinted her eyes at the tanned, muscled, tattooed, pierced, scarred-- at the body before her and mimicked the stance. Left foot forward, left hand out, right hand closer to her, the dagger by her own ribs, the blade cocked out a bit as if she was unwilling to keep it so close to her gut-- even though it was still sheathed. She flexed her left hand into a tight fist, and was surprised to find that the quivering of her muscles had even stopped, her legs and hands no longer trembling. This really was good, all was going well. Not that she knew the proper way to block an attack, but having a hand free would be useful regardless, wouldn't it? She thought of the small bag of flour, a bulge in the right-side pocket of her vest used for something of a... harmless distraction, if someone was getting a little too rough with her. With her left hand open, she imagined that it would be better to switch the bag to the left-side pocket, for easier access. She did so, reaching around her thin waist with her left hand to grope in her big pocket, dragging the simple, black-cloth bag out and stuffing it in the other side. There. Ready for use. Not that she intended to give the Myrian a handful of flour to the face --no, certainly that would annoy him, and then she'd be in big trouble-- but she might as well reposition it before she forgot altogether.

That done, she focused back on... on Razkar's stance, shuffling her feet a little to get them just so, before she asked, "L-Like this?" She thought she heard some snickering from the men who were watching --a few of them had stopped in their training to ogle as she had been climbing carefully into the ring-- and tried not to pay too much attention to them, instead focusing on her teacher.

OOCSorry for not doing much, but, well... she's just copying him for now. ^^'

[Razkar]

"L-Like this?"

The Fighters Pit was not the Training Yard of the Knights, and the (supposed) nobility and fairness and discipline that built that fine order was bereft there. The Pit was aptly named, for all manner of upright vermin and snakes slithered around it, plotting and scheming even as they battered each other. So when the vulnerability in her voice as heard, the ripple of laughter was almost like the hissing of serpents scenting blood.

And Razkar's gaze snapped up in fury.

"Want try instead?" He snarled, voice dripping with cold anger as he pointed at a random, leering figure with his kukri. "Think funny? Not see you face Myrian?"

The human made some attempt to salvage his pride, glance flickering to fair-weather friends on his flanks. "M-Maybe I will!"

Razkar snorted and hawked a hateful glob of spittle onto the sand, turning from the weekend warrior. "Not see in pit. When I do, maybe believe. Until then, keep eyes from her."

That sorted out, the Myrian strode forwards and spoke lower, voice more urgent but still oddly harsh. It was the way he'd been raised after all, in the brutality of Falyndar where the weak were not tolerated...

... which was nonsense, of course. Everyone, even the mightiest Dhani, finest Knight and fiercest Myrian, began as a helpless babe, mewling into a hostile world. They were cared for by the strong. Beings who loved and cared for them. Watching the faintly-trembling Isolde now, Razkar felt some shadow of that protectiveness.

"Watch way you speak." He said quietly, but there was iron in his voice. "I know is strange. Strange can mean frighten. But must show strong in world... or monsters will eat you." There was a flush of fear in those eyes and he narrowed his eyes a touch more. "This world is not place for weak. Until you are strong inside... make outside look strong."

A wink. An actual, lightning-fast wink that broke the tension of the moment.

"Maybe give you chance to run away..."

Razkar had said his piece and decided to get back to work. He stood back across from her and gestured for her to snap back into the first stance. She did so and he scrutinized it slowly, eyes moving up and down... before nodding sharply.

"Good. For now. Now, I am going to strike, but strike slow. See what you do."

True to his word, the Myrian stepped forward and his kukri stabbed slowly towards Isolde's stomach, arm unfolding from the side of his chest at less than half-speed. He watched as Isolde just looked at it approach... and then her free hand batted down.

Weakly.

"Not enough." He said gruffly, and something about her touch bought some half-remembered warning screaming into life in the back of his head. "Free hand must be strong enough to knock arm away. Knock knife away." He settled back into his stance and nodded. "You do to me."

Shakily, uncertainly, Isolde did so, moving her trembling knife out slowly until it was halfway between them-

-and Razkar's free hand came slowly swinging down, forearm knocking against hers and moving her knife to her side-

-his kukri was moving at the same time, curved blade stabbing towards her, then stopping and pulling back.

"And not use hand." He said, patting his meaty forearm with his blade. "This much harder, much bigger. Use this to knock. Also means if gets hit by knife, still use hand. Try again..."

[Isolde Seibold]

When the snickering had started, Isolde had been focusing very hard on trying to ignore it, eyes watching her teacher's hands--

So when he suddenly snarled and spat, her own head snapped up in surprise, blue eyes going for his face, frantically trying to judge his expression, confused at what she had done to make him angry-- and then she saw that his gaze was directed up towards those in the stands, and he was busy growling at the men there, who were now looking back a lot more nervously... and he was defending her. She wasn't quite certain what emotion was showing on her face as he turned and approached her, striding purposefully, but if she had to hazard a guess it would have been something with confusion and wonder mixed dizzily together. Probably some fear slipped in, too, when he spoke to her, the words coming hard as iron.

"Watch way you speak. I know is strange. Strange can mean frighten. But must show strong in world... or monsters will eat you." She hoped he had not seen the shiver that had run up her back when he said that; she hoped, too, that he didn't catch the guilt that flashed in her eyes when he mentioned 'monsters'. She was nothing more than one herself, after all. "This world is not place for weak. Until you are strong inside... make outside look strong." He winked, and for a moment she was confused by the gesture, confused by the shift in the tone of the short conversation.. until he continued, "Maybe give you chance to run away..." There was that ever-present moment of hesitation, and then Isolde gave a stiff, short nod, and the tone shifted suddenly again, everything back to business.

The Nuit hadn't realized that she had moved during their exchange, but at Razkar's gesture she slid easily back into position, dagger towards him, trying to moderate her expression to something a little less... openly nervous. It was one thing for him to say that she needed to show the world a stiff upper lip... it was an entirely different thing to be able to do that, especially since she was so used to playing the submissive role: scurrying out of the way of anyone who looked too threatening, avoiding eye contact, hurried apologies already prepared, ready to be stammered out, awaiting at her lips. So it was with some effort that the Nuit steeled herself, and actually kept her gaze on his face as he talked, all the while trying to mirror his hard exterior as easily as she had mirrored his stance. Well... perhaps trying to scowl like a Myrian was a bit of a tall order for the Nuit, but at least she managed to knock the stupid fear from her face.

As they went through the motions of the simple attack-and-block, the Nuit tried to beat back her insecurity, wrestling with her natural aversion to violence. Her hand came down too slowly, too weakly. Her blade moved forward shakily, and certainly it was easy for him to knock her arm aside, his kukri stabbing towards her before he pulled it back, safely away. She listened gravely to his instructions and corrections, but something was nagging at her, dragging her attention away. A feeling, deep in her gut, coiling and swirling. It was hard to pay attention to him, she almost lost his words-- and then her eyes flicked up to the men in the stands, who had turned glowering gazes back to the field, to the pair... but they were no longer focused on her.

A few of the men were throwing secret, resentful glares at Razkar while his back was turned, and his words jumped back to mind, echoing tinnily. But must show strong in world... or monsters will eat you. Yes, but then what had he just done, aligning himself with her, pitting himself against all of those watching, daring them, wounding their prides? And that feeling in her gut... she thought she recognized it now, didn't she? The Burned Man --her last mentor-- had unwittingly introduced it to her, so long ago... that grasping, nervous feeling in her stomach, when she desperately found that she didn't want to disappoint. It was worse now, clawing its way to life. If she disappointed the Myrian, after he had stuck up for her in front of those men, if she proved herself to be just a pushover, unfit even for training... then how would they look at the Myrian? She didn't know what they could possibly do to him, but regardless... she was not going to start problems for him, by making it look like he was-- was giving out charity to a little weakling unfit to learn. Her actions, her reception and ability to perform and learn reflected on him, on his teaching. She would try her best not to disappoint him. She would.

"Try again..."

His advice still sinking into her, she brought her eyebrows down, eyes focused determinedly on his hands, and when his arm came forward she brought her own down with barely a hesitation, swatting at his forearm with her own, and was rewarded when his arm was pushed to the side. Her own right arm was curving forward in retaliation just as his had before, poking her sheathed dagger solidly at the air in front of his gut. A sense of warmth struggled through her, and she felt the smallest of smiles flicker up at the corners of her mouth as she completed the motion. Not that she thought she could block his strike if he came at her in earnest... but this was a start, wasn't it? It was a start.

"Better?" she asked, and no doubt he would catch the subtle shift in her tone, the lack of the stutter. The minute measure of confidence. Yes, it was definitely a start.

[Razkar]

Razkar noted the firmer tone to her voice when she spoke, but he did not reply immediately. Over and over they repeated their motions: him thrust, her batting his arm away-

-her sheathed dagger striking towards him a half-dozen times, speeding up a little with every thrust.

"Yes." He said after her last attempt, nodding his approval as both her arms moved as one, the left battering away his arm and the right stabbing at his stomach. "Better. But remember to move both arm at same time, like just did. And practice. That is key to this, almost much as experience."

He smirked softly at the girl. "But experience for you would be dangerous, hmm? Getting into brawl and fight... not good idea with you skill. Would get killed. So, practice. When I was with Taloba Army, we train every day, bell after bell after bell."

Razkar stepped back and unleashed a rapid combination of moves. He slashed low and stabbed with the kukri, movements a little clumsy thanks to his inexperience with the weapon, but left arm moving smoothly to jab and block and parry.

"Practice train muscle. Make muscle remember, body remember, so not have to think when real fight happen. That moment, where mind thinks? Can kill you, because body waits. But if body already knows, that moments is yours."

Wisdom imparted, the Myrian circled the female, gaze cold and critical. Once he was back to her front, he nodded, apparently ready for the next part o the lesson.

"Important thing, too, is to take enemy's blade. So if cannot stab or slash body, go for arm." He extended his own arm and pointed to the arteries on his forearm, the tendons in his bicep, making sure she was watching. "When enemy make stab or slash, after avoid or block, try to stab. Try and stab me."

Little hesitation this time, he was happy to see. A determination that he appreciated and was familiar with had settled on those dark, sunken eyes and Isolde stabbed forwards slowly, arm extending-

-as Razkar slid a step to his left, Isolde's right, kukri drawing up across his chest and backhanding a slash at her forearm, stopping just before he hit.

"Stop."

The girl did as she was told freezing, seeing his curved blade hovering above her arm.

"See? Could cut arm. Maybe make you drop knife. Or-" he stepped forward, kukri slicing horizontally towards her upper arm and stopping just before her bicep "-slash higher, on bicep. Slash deep enough, cut rope of muscle there. Arm useless."

He settled back into his stance and nodded at her arm.

"Why you must take care to keep moving. Keep feet moving, not just plant on ground and make roots. Always move. Always stay away from enemy knife. And protect you own arm."

Razkar's knees bent and he moved back into-

-the same stance that he saw Isolde take up without being told: right arm with her blade tight to her side, left arm up a little. He nodded approvingly to her.

"Good. Now, attack. We go a little faster. See what happen..."

[Isolde Seibold]

After such repetition, it was strange to think that she was supposed to do something else. Move some other way, attack some other part, and all the while watching her teacher, trying to react and counterattack, or block, or slide into a dodge, or at least stop him from taking a poke at her. But here he was, requesting diversity in his low voice, words rumbling out, "Good. Now, attack. We go a little faster. See what happen..."

So what was she to do but as he asked? She didn't know if she had the mind for this, she certainly didn't have the body-- not just her natural Nuit frailness, oh no, but it had certainly become clear that he was right when it came to muscle memory. If she practiced, if she made this a priority, she might be good enough to be able to defend herself, to feel comfortable at it. Right now, her body still felt weak and untrained and useless, but there was no way to get better-- not without trying something new.

The Nuit took a deep breath, feeling the potential in her posture, especially the bounce and give in her slightly-bent knees. She was comforted by the fact that she could not possibly hurt him; probably she shouldn't have been, but there it was. Considering that that was exactly what she was supposed to be trying to do, that was definitely the wrong thing to be thinking. She tried to knock it from her mind. She was supposed to try to get him, that was the whole point.

Trying to not let the uncertainty claw at her features, Isolde moved. What was there to do but to start at the beginning and hope a new and promising development arose?

The Nuit broke forward as usual, right arm lunging a bit faster, dagger gunning for his stomach; his block came in, battering her attack away, and with it came his counterattack, his kukri flashing towards her; she didn't know where he was aiming but she had the sense to step back and away, bowing forward a bit, trying to keep her feet under her so her balance would remain sound... and finding herself plunged into unfamiliar territory, what should she do? She wanted to hesitate, but she couldn't, and so her left arm slapped down at his right forearm, because the kukri was still extending, his reach further than she thought, following her movement as she stepped back; her block was botched, her hand sliding wildly against his arm... until suddenly it caught at his wrist, clamping on, and the kukri was still coming; so the only thing she could think was to step forward, yanking at his blade arm, trying to control it, encouraging his motion to lead him forward, his blade biting into the open air by her side, so close she felt it as it passed; her own blade arm swinging back in, fueled by the force he had added to it when he'd blocked; this time she didn't have the position to aim for his stomach or arm, coming close towards him in such a way, so really her only viable target was the side of his neck; so that was what she went for, dagger arcing down, more a cut than a stab; before realizing that she had lost track of his left hand, and certainly being so close was a compromising position.

Sh-Shyke! she thought, eyes searching wildly for his next move, not knowing where to look, should she find his left hand, his feet, his own eyes-- what would best indicate his plans? She was too inexperienced to know, and the hesitancy spilled back onto her features like a flood as she hopelessly tried to react to whatever was coming... and at the same time the horror spilled in, because shyke, she had gone for his neck--

OOCSorry if it's confusing and a bit limited, but I tried to make it clear. Never... really... done anything like this before, ever, so excuse the noobiness.

[Razkar]

She knows t improvise. Well, that's something at least...

Razkar didn't really know what to expect when they began; novices could be like that. Untrained, unskilled and uncoordinated, but it was their very unpredictability that could make them dangerous. Their very lack of style and polish was like trying to predict and defend against an animal.

Isolde's lunge was textbook, at least as Razkar had written it, blade darting for his stomach-

-easily blocked by his forearm, his own kukri coming in to stab at her. Then her hand came in and he made a note to chide her for that. Forearm! That was what he'd taught, and her hand alone wouldn't-

-or perhaps it would.

The Myrian paused for an instant as thin, cold... so cold fingers slid around his wrist and yanked his thrust away from her, high and to the side, away from its path. He pulled at it but-

-then her dagger was moving again, slashing wildly towards his neck-

-and Razkar's own hand jerked upwards, strong, tanned fingers snapping around her wrist before the metal touched his throat, body twisting as he did, pulling her forwards, off balance-

And he held her there, perpendicular, knife hand immobilized in his iron grip, kukri twisted in his grip so the blade was resting against the underside of her arm, and the Myrian could almost feel the frenzied beat of her artery through it...

"Not bad." He said, but his voice was much lower... colder. Something had stirred from memory and become a warning. Dark eyes now gazed down at her with suspicion, an emotion she did not find comforting in those pitiless orbs. "Use hand to pull kukri away. Good idea. But see here?" He tapped his kukri against her arm. "I could pull back and open vein in you arm. Bleed. Bleed alot. Maybe bleed all..."

He paused. He felt the terror rising in her now, but not just of his prowess... of some... secret, some knowledge that she feared he was on the cusp of, and only one question came to his mind.

"... you are not human." It was a statement, not a question, and even as her mouth opened he plowed on. "Not try and lie. Make me angry. No hand that cold apart from dead man."

There. He'd all but said it, spoken the name and thus the race but still Razkar's memory failed him and exactly what this girl was eluded him. But she was more than what she appeared, seeming waxy and lifeless to him now despite the soaking emotion coating her eyes and her speech.

The Myrian felt torn in a very unwelcome fashion. On the one hand, there was something deathly odd about this female, and his combat instincts bristled at that sensation... but...

She is still a girl. A terrified female who sought only to learn from you... and there is no evil in those eyes.

"Evil is not always fashioned from demons and cackling villains; often they craft virtue and innocence to their corruption... and snare the righteous," he growled in his native tongue, words she would not understand, but the next ones...

"What are you?"

OOCNot bad. As Raz said, quite inventive, actually! I'd advise breaking up those paragraphs that had a lot going on into smaller sections and lines, maybe that would make it easier for the other person to follow. That's just me, though.

[Isolde Seibold]

The Myrian's hand snapped around her wrist, dragging her off balance, and the panic rose. And then his words came-- and there it was, his tone had shifted, and for a few long ticks the Nuit could do nothing but listen to his words, too aware of the knife pressed to the flesh of her arm. Opening the skin there would not do as he thought it would. If she could treat the wound, some stitches, maybe some wax and cloth, or if she could find a new body in enough time... she would most definitely live. Well. She would "live". Ichor wasn't as eager to leave the body as pounding, beating blood. In the long run an open wound, even a small wound, would kill. But in the short-term, providing that it was taken care of... She would be fine.

She wasn't now.

The problem was that he still hadn't let go of her wrist. And she realized she hadn't let go of him. She did so, fingers trembling and twitching, releasing him carefully, drawing her arm away from that blade... and trying to take her other hand back, which she was not certain he would give... but how was she supposed to get away from him if he had a grip on her? Shyke, she had messed this up. And then he began talking, and even Syna's rays could not make her feel warm.

"... you are not human. Not try and lie. Make me angry. No hand that cold apart from dead man." Now the Nuit jerked her hand back and he released her, allowing her to go stumbling back on thin legs that felt like they wanted to wobble out from underneath her. Her knapsack. She needed to get her knapsack, she needed to leave, now. Because he was growling something at her in that language he had used earlier, that throaty language that he had used when he was angry, and so that was a cue, wasn't it? And then he was asking, "What are you?" so plainly, and those who had been watching had gone silent when the pair had grabbed each other, and they were watching eerily now. She could just feel them listening in. Gods, why was he doing this? Telling her not to expose weakness, and then turning it around and asking her to say, aloud, the largest weakness that she had. She should not have let him lull her into feeling... feeling like he might be able to be trusted. Gods, no. What had she been thinking? And now... what would he do if she didn't answer? Attack, just because he could? The Nuit had folded her arms across her stomach, hunching her shoulders, staring at Razkar of the Shorn Skulls with naked fear and trepidation. And still the silence stretched on.

She had to speak. "I-- I'm sorry. B-But I-- I d-don't--" She stopped and swallowed, and her mind flashed once more to her knapsack. What if she had to get out of here quickly? What if she didn't have time to grab it? Horror dawned on her then. All her money was in the knapsack. All of it. And her paints. All of those, too. She couldn't leave something so precious to her at home, out of sight, but now-- the adage Don't put all the eggs in one basket leapt to mind. If she was forced to leave the knapsack here, how would she get more paints? She couldn't buy more if she didn't have any money.

"I-- I-- c-can't-- " There was also his other students to think about, close enough to hear her words even if she had whispered. "I-- I'll l-leave-- I'll j-just go. Pl-Please. L-Let me g-go. Keep the m-money, if th-that's what you want. But please. I h-haven't-- I didn't mean--" "To frighten you," she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't leave her mouth. Her. Frighten him? It was laughable. Repulse him, more like. Disgust him. Anger him. And she still hadn't answered him.

Fine. She had no choice. No choice. None. "N-Nuit. N-Now pl-please. L-Let me leave." But would it be safe even to leave?