An Apprentice for Sama'el

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

He disagreed with her. She had no skill with the blade, only a bit of knowledge as to how to hold it. If they were to build her from the ground up, that was all well and good, and he respected her -- the Sayaph had accepted her, after all! -- but he wasn't going to baby her either. If she required such a soft touch, she wouldn't likely do well on the Watch. Their life was hard. Sama'el could not recall a humble teacher; in fact, those who had taught him the most had been hard and sometimes cruel. Better to develop a thick skin with someone who had a vested interest in one's improvement than be coddled until the real world killed a person. He sighed and offered up her scimitar, running a ceremonial hand across the blade, whispering again a prayer to Uphis. "We need to see what your skills are," he said calmly. "The better to focus on what the Sayaph wants improved before you are accepted among us. I am not trying to hurt your feelings, but I want to make sure your skills are sharp. If I fail you, then your death in the field will be my fault. Do you understand?" He hoped she did. "Show me what you can do, then. I will watch, and then we will know what work we have to do."

[Mealla Stormsong]

“What skills?” she could not help but snap, her pride still wounded, eyes still flaring. “Apparently I have none.” Oh, she knew that she was overreacting, acting like a child – she was all too aware of that one fact - but she had started on this path and was too stubborn to back down and admit that he might just have a point, and that she should, in fact, listen. She really had never been good at taking instruction, especially from someone who was around her own age. That too pricked at her pride and made her want to blush from embarrassment and humiliation, and that only added to her anger and frustration. It not did help either that she found him attractive; appealing. She wanted to hate him, not... not... think about how nice his eyes were, his face, his... Zulrav help her. She lifted her chin once again – a sign of her stubbornness-, her cheeks colouring, and snatched the blade from him. There would be no backing down, no giving in. Not yet, at least. “But if I were to die in the field, then it would be my own fault – no one else’s. Not yours. I will have failed myself. “And what shall I do? Swing my sword around? Prance about? Stab at the air? I am not going to fight myself.” She had already made enough of a fool of herself, but she was not about to admit that. Never that. "Fight me. Don't just watch. Or must I throw myself at you?"

OOCSorry! Please don't kill me for the lameness (and for being difficult)!

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

He sighed. This was going to be an ongoing challenge for the both of them, and suddenly he realized how much this was a test for him as much as for her. It was not lost upon him that he was nearing that point in his career with the Watch where he might conceivably be promoted to Rayvehk. Taking Ronan on as an apprentice was an intelligent move, but whereas Ronan was like a brother to him, and they had already spent seasons helping each other improve their skills, Mealla was going to be a constant challenge. But if he wanted to be a leader among the Watch, he would have to learn how to work with people who were not easy. And what was easy about a fiery, proud, insufficiently trained woman of the Diamond Clan with a chip on her shoulder? Well, and if she were thinking clearly, she might see the Sayaph's wisdom in this choice too. If she wanted to join the Watch, she would have to learn enough humility to learn from a man barely older than her, who was quite skilled in many areas where she was lacking, and she would have to learn to subsume her prized dignity for their ultimate, shared goal: the protection of the Drykas. He drew his scimitar in one simple arc, smoothly and and swiftly. Were this a true fight, that arc would have continued into an attack, but instead, moved into a defensive stance, his blade held in a middle guard, horizontal across his body, grip to the right. "Let us try your way, then," he agreed.

OOCNo worries. Just going on she has 0 skill with a scimitar, but she will earn it with Sama'el!

[Mealla Stormsong]

Mealla had to suppress the urge to simply turn around and storm off. She wanted to. Gods, she really, really wanted to, but that would get her nowhere. She needed this; she needed to become a member of the Watch in order to see her dream and wishes fulfilled. She wasn’t meant to spend the rest of her life in her Pavilion doing nothing but bearing children and never, ever seeing life beyond it. That would kill her. It would. She squared her shoulders, tightening her grip on her scimitar, and straightened, her gaze never leaving Sama’el. She knew that he would have her beaten – on her back – in a matter of moments, but at least no one could say that she hadn’t tried, and perhaps, though it was a small hope, Zulrav was watching and would help her. He wouldn’t want one of his Stormwardens humiliated, would he? He couldn't possibly let that happen. Her movements were not as smooth or as graceful as Sama'el's. In fact, they could probably be classed as the opposite – awkward and rough – but she didn’t care; she didn’t let it get to her. “Good,” was all she said with a flicker of a small, tight smile, half-provoking. “You’re finally doing it the right way. Good boy.” And then she moved, swinging her sword in an arc towards him, though it was off-centre, off-balance, the weight of it making it fall too far to the right, pulling her forward, but she grit her teeth, determined, even as she prayed silently to Zulrav. Her hair fell around her face; those strands that had fallen loose from where it had been pulled back. Let her at least touch him, graze him. Give her that, at least. Please.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Once the battle was begun, he didn't speak. It wouldn't do to make verbal corrections, as that would only anger her, make her more rash and less focused on the task at hand. If he could show her through their dance of blades where she made mistakes, and if she could learn to counter things by observing how he countered her, perhaps he wouldn't have to speak at all. She was of the Diamond Clan. She ought to have some natural knack for all things warlike. He knocked her blade aside with a high, horizontal slash, deflecting her strike with the flat of his blade. But her forward momentum made him take a step back. So she didn't land a blow or sneak around his guard, but she made him give ground. She could, perhaps, be proud of that. There was no comment, no lightning-quick spin and counter attack to her exposed side, but this was not a battle to the death, and he had to build both her knowledge and her confidence in herself, and then she wouldn't need to overcompensate. He just watched her warily, waiting for the next attack. Soon he would begin an offensive of his own, to see if this was the best way to teach her to dance.

[Mealla Stormsong]

She cursed under her breath as he knocked her blade aside. The move pushed her off balance, and for a moment she struggled to recover, to find her feet, and centre herself once again. Her grip on the scimitar tightened until her knuckles were white, and she stared at him, never once taking her gaze away. She watched for any movement – for the faintest twitch or sign - that would show her that he was about to act. She might not be able to fight well, but she’d always been good at seeing the signs, and reacting. But there was nothing. He wasn’t going to attack. It wasn’t a proper fight. And that made her angry, despite the fact that her attack had pushed him back; oh, she paid no heed to that. That wasn’t good enough. Pushing back wasn’t a strike, wasn’t a hit – it really wasn’t good enough. She wanted to be good. She wanted to be remembered. She wanted people to respect her. Most of all, she wanted him to respect her, instead of laugh as she feared he did. He wasn’t supposed to laugh. Never. She took a step back, widening the gap, her gaze wary, watching, as she debated what to do. If he was not going to fight properly and attack, then she was going to take the time to think things through. Finally, she moved again - faster this time -, her movements still jerky and ungraceful, and feinted to the right, pulling back at the last instant to send the sword arching to his left, hopefully to strike, connect with flesh, but she doubted it. And for once there were no words – no insults, no name-calling. Her entire attention was on the fight. She needed to prove herself.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sama'el allowed her the time and space to think, certainly more than she was ever likely to get in a real fight. And just an instant before he was going to rush her and force the issue, she struck again, which pleased him. His personal style was rather circular, always moving, and so as soon as he recognized the feint, he was spinning around to block the actual strike, whirling past her guard to hip check her into a stumble. He followed it up with a quick strike to her own blade, intended not to harm her, but to make it vibrate terribly, which would require she struggle through the discomfort if she didn't want to be disarmed. She already knew his thoughts on dropping a blade on the ground. But he was watching her closely, and was glad to see good instincts. One day, he might be learning from her, but for today it was his task to challenge her and refine her, to make a fine weapon out of her.

[Mealla Stormsong]

Mealla bit down hard on her lip as the impact of his blade against hers sent a jarring pain up through her arm and to her shoulder, but she didn’t otherwise react, didn’t otherwise give ground. Her eyes remained on his, and she gave a small, quick smile, though the warmth did not quite reach them. A part of her wanted it to over - she wasn’t used to losing; didn’t much like it - but then her stubbornness refused to back down. Her father had always said it would be the one thing that would kill her, and maybe he was right. Maybe it would get her killed one day, but not today, not when the man before her was apparently too scared to so much as touch her. Charming. So nice. Still not taking her eyes from Sama’el, her hands tightened on the handle of her scimitar until her knuckles grew white with the strain. She moved, refusing to keep still, to give him an opening, circling around and around, trying to find something in him that she herself could take advantage of. She pushed a stray strand of hair – already becoming sweat-soaked – from her face, before both hands were back on the scimitar, gripping tightly. “Am I proving myself to you yet?” she asked, finally breaking the silence. “Enough to try to attack me instead of just standing there? Go on. I bet you’re dying to get me on my back.” She gave a grin, and continued to move, circling, around and around and around. “Go on. I dare you. Go on. Try. Put me on my back.”

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

He gave her a slight, approving nod of respect that she kept a hold of her blade. He knew how such a ringing vibration could hurt or, if it didn't hurt, be quite uncomfortable, sometimes numbing the whole arm if one managed to keep a grip on it. He didn't have the words to articulate what she was doing, but he understood how she was projecting her insecurities upon him. But he didn't know quite how to help her with that other than to teach her what he knew, and if she didn't want that... Well. Everyone fought differently. Sama'el fought in circles. There were circles connecting him to his opponent, him to his blade, his blade to their blade, and so many axes upon which to turn. He was a whirlwind when he got going, and he had been practicing acrobatic maneuvers for a good long while, too. And so he feinted once, twice, fast as whip lashes, before executing a leap into a barrel roll, his scimitar knocking hers aside as his leg flashed out unexpectedly behind her knee, his momentum sweeping her feet out from under her. But her stance was more grounded than he had anticipated, and so he stumbled to one knee rather than landing neatly. He was still learning a thing or two himself, but he had her on her back. Another man might have made a quip about penetrating her, a wicked gleam in the eye substituting blade for the weapon between his legs, but not Sama'el. He stood up, offering her a hand up. "Do you think you can block that now that you have seen it?" He wasn't mocking, wasn't jesting, but asking her seriously, trying to find a way for her to learn that wouldn't bruise her ego.

[Mealla Stormsong]

Mealla didn’t have a specific way of fighting, or, rather, she didn’t know whether or not she had. She simply did whatever came to her mind first, whether that be something of her own, or mimicking the move of her opponent. She certainly never knew what to expect from others, though, of course, she was always waiting and watching; always ready to react. Her arm still ached, and it felt as if someone had just hit her with her hammer, which, she supposed, the force had been equal to. She wanted nothing more than to drop the scimitar, give into the pain, and cling onto her arm, though she didn’t, of course. She wasn’t about to show herself to be weak. She still had to prove herself. She still had to show that she was worthy of being in the Watch. But in the next instant, she found herself on her back, the breath driven from her lungs, and she immediately cursed, cheeks burning with shame, angry with herself for letting him catch her out so quickly and easily. He could have given her some warning! She stared at him as she pushed herself up, face still red, still burning, and took the offered hand without a word. Her knee buckled the moment she put weight on it, and she fell back down with a cry, her hand slipping from his, and leant forward, hugging her knee to her as she tried to keep her breathing under control; tried to keep the pain out. She wasn’t going to show him, after all. She’d sworn. She wasn’t going to do anything that would threaten her position in the Watch and show her to be unworthy. She tried again to stand, to support herself, but fell back down with yet another cry. Oh gods. No.