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It was that middle-ground period. The piece of time in which neither Vangelis nor Nike was tired from watch - when they had both had equal sleep and equal time conscious and could not (though neither of them ever would) use their restful or wakeful hours as an excuse for bad form or bad play. It was time to crack out the swords and see if the Blood General was indeed fit for service once more...
Since the events of the storm, Vangelis had trained as often and as hard as his body would allow. Mostly his practice sessions were solitary. This was for a twofold reason. One, was that he was not interested in his followers or commanders - even the ones he most trusted - seeing him flounder. In the beginning his weight distribution had been all off, his pain receptors instinctively keeping the power of his stance off of his injured side. The problem with this of course meant that his highly learned and practised routines were thrown off and without the use of those limbs, the muscles could not build strength. Therefore, he had been forced to push back - to deliberately vary his weight evenly across his legs, to hold weapons on both hands instead of one, and to force the calibration of his skeleton and his brain back into equality... no matter how much it hurt. All this then did, of course, was have him fall when his pushed too far or his muscles couldn't withstand the pressure that he had once expected of them. Such mistakes or stumbles were not elements of his retraining that he wanted anyone to witness. Especially those from whom he wanted respect.
The second reason that most of his rehabilitation into the military arts had been complete solo, was due to the fact that it wasn't required for him to practice with anyone else. Fighting style, moves and strikes were all still in his mind. There was no need for him to relearn to fight. He knew how to defeat an opponent, knew how to complete a victory with minimal effort on his own part and maximum devastation on theirs. His fighting knowledge had not been knocked out of him within the mountains. Just the strength with which he needed to carry it out in practice. Ergo, the recovery he was putting his body through was more about developing his muscles and strength once more, than it was learning to parry, block and strike.
In short, up until now, he had needed no addition to his exercises.
After just over a week at sea, on the way to Taengea, Vangelis had been working his body morning and night and felt he was finally at a point where additional complications needed to be added to his exercises. His right leg and arm were working perfectly normally as far as he could tell, now able to carry out any movements, routines or combinations of strikes he had perfected over the years. The only incidents he found was an ache that set up shop in his thigh and shoulder whenever he practiced for too long. The actual work itself was sound.
What he needed now was to add weight to those attacks. He needed a parrier, a fighter, a soldier on the defensive. One who would meet his attacks with equal pressure and force him to work his body harder in order to gain the ground he so easily achieved against thin air.
What he needed, was the bout Nike had promised him when they had first set sail on this vessel.
Noticing that she was starting to come away, where she lay on the ships main deck - she had, as he had expected, refused to bunk down with him in his own quarters beneath the slumbering crew - Vangelis moved to her side and nudged her leg, a little above the knee, with the toe of his boot.
Even with the sun only just breaching the horizon and the night sky still casting the ship mostly in shadow, Vangelis knew she would recognise only his silhouette standing above her.
"Collect your wits, Nike." Vangelis instructed with a second nudge of his boot. "Time to test your vigour." With a twist at the corner of his mouth, "Time to see if you've gone soft without me testing you."
His tone was dry but both of them knew his words were naught by humorous face-saving. Vangelis swung his blade in a spun around his wrist and then headed towards the back end of the ship where the helm had been tied off to keep the ship on cause while the sailors slept. He jogged up the steps that would put him in the middle of the open upper deck and waited for Nike to shrug off the sleep and join him.
Time to put his body back to work...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It was that middle-ground period. The piece of time in which neither Vangelis nor Nike was tired from watch - when they had both had equal sleep and equal time conscious and could not (though neither of them ever would) use their restful or wakeful hours as an excuse for bad form or bad play. It was time to crack out the swords and see if the Blood General was indeed fit for service once more...
Since the events of the storm, Vangelis had trained as often and as hard as his body would allow. Mostly his practice sessions were solitary. This was for a twofold reason. One, was that he was not interested in his followers or commanders - even the ones he most trusted - seeing him flounder. In the beginning his weight distribution had been all off, his pain receptors instinctively keeping the power of his stance off of his injured side. The problem with this of course meant that his highly learned and practised routines were thrown off and without the use of those limbs, the muscles could not build strength. Therefore, he had been forced to push back - to deliberately vary his weight evenly across his legs, to hold weapons on both hands instead of one, and to force the calibration of his skeleton and his brain back into equality... no matter how much it hurt. All this then did, of course, was have him fall when his pushed too far or his muscles couldn't withstand the pressure that he had once expected of them. Such mistakes or stumbles were not elements of his retraining that he wanted anyone to witness. Especially those from whom he wanted respect.
The second reason that most of his rehabilitation into the military arts had been complete solo, was due to the fact that it wasn't required for him to practice with anyone else. Fighting style, moves and strikes were all still in his mind. There was no need for him to relearn to fight. He knew how to defeat an opponent, knew how to complete a victory with minimal effort on his own part and maximum devastation on theirs. His fighting knowledge had not been knocked out of him within the mountains. Just the strength with which he needed to carry it out in practice. Ergo, the recovery he was putting his body through was more about developing his muscles and strength once more, than it was learning to parry, block and strike.
In short, up until now, he had needed no addition to his exercises.
After just over a week at sea, on the way to Taengea, Vangelis had been working his body morning and night and felt he was finally at a point where additional complications needed to be added to his exercises. His right leg and arm were working perfectly normally as far as he could tell, now able to carry out any movements, routines or combinations of strikes he had perfected over the years. The only incidents he found was an ache that set up shop in his thigh and shoulder whenever he practiced for too long. The actual work itself was sound.
What he needed now was to add weight to those attacks. He needed a parrier, a fighter, a soldier on the defensive. One who would meet his attacks with equal pressure and force him to work his body harder in order to gain the ground he so easily achieved against thin air.
What he needed, was the bout Nike had promised him when they had first set sail on this vessel.
Noticing that she was starting to come away, where she lay on the ships main deck - she had, as he had expected, refused to bunk down with him in his own quarters beneath the slumbering crew - Vangelis moved to her side and nudged her leg, a little above the knee, with the toe of his boot.
Even with the sun only just breaching the horizon and the night sky still casting the ship mostly in shadow, Vangelis knew she would recognise only his silhouette standing above her.
"Collect your wits, Nike." Vangelis instructed with a second nudge of his boot. "Time to test your vigour." With a twist at the corner of his mouth, "Time to see if you've gone soft without me testing you."
His tone was dry but both of them knew his words were naught by humorous face-saving. Vangelis swung his blade in a spun around his wrist and then headed towards the back end of the ship where the helm had been tied off to keep the ship on cause while the sailors slept. He jogged up the steps that would put him in the middle of the open upper deck and waited for Nike to shrug off the sleep and join him.
Time to put his body back to work...
It was that middle-ground period. The piece of time in which neither Vangelis nor Nike was tired from watch - when they had both had equal sleep and equal time conscious and could not (though neither of them ever would) use their restful or wakeful hours as an excuse for bad form or bad play. It was time to crack out the swords and see if the Blood General was indeed fit for service once more...
Since the events of the storm, Vangelis had trained as often and as hard as his body would allow. Mostly his practice sessions were solitary. This was for a twofold reason. One, was that he was not interested in his followers or commanders - even the ones he most trusted - seeing him flounder. In the beginning his weight distribution had been all off, his pain receptors instinctively keeping the power of his stance off of his injured side. The problem with this of course meant that his highly learned and practised routines were thrown off and without the use of those limbs, the muscles could not build strength. Therefore, he had been forced to push back - to deliberately vary his weight evenly across his legs, to hold weapons on both hands instead of one, and to force the calibration of his skeleton and his brain back into equality... no matter how much it hurt. All this then did, of course, was have him fall when his pushed too far or his muscles couldn't withstand the pressure that he had once expected of them. Such mistakes or stumbles were not elements of his retraining that he wanted anyone to witness. Especially those from whom he wanted respect.
The second reason that most of his rehabilitation into the military arts had been complete solo, was due to the fact that it wasn't required for him to practice with anyone else. Fighting style, moves and strikes were all still in his mind. There was no need for him to relearn to fight. He knew how to defeat an opponent, knew how to complete a victory with minimal effort on his own part and maximum devastation on theirs. His fighting knowledge had not been knocked out of him within the mountains. Just the strength with which he needed to carry it out in practice. Ergo, the recovery he was putting his body through was more about developing his muscles and strength once more, than it was learning to parry, block and strike.
In short, up until now, he had needed no addition to his exercises.
After just over a week at sea, on the way to Taengea, Vangelis had been working his body morning and night and felt he was finally at a point where additional complications needed to be added to his exercises. His right leg and arm were working perfectly normally as far as he could tell, now able to carry out any movements, routines or combinations of strikes he had perfected over the years. The only incidents he found was an ache that set up shop in his thigh and shoulder whenever he practiced for too long. The actual work itself was sound.
What he needed now was to add weight to those attacks. He needed a parrier, a fighter, a soldier on the defensive. One who would meet his attacks with equal pressure and force him to work his body harder in order to gain the ground he so easily achieved against thin air.
What he needed, was the bout Nike had promised him when they had first set sail on this vessel.
Noticing that she was starting to come away, where she lay on the ships main deck - she had, as he had expected, refused to bunk down with him in his own quarters beneath the slumbering crew - Vangelis moved to her side and nudged her leg, a little above the knee, with the toe of his boot.
Even with the sun only just breaching the horizon and the night sky still casting the ship mostly in shadow, Vangelis knew she would recognise only his silhouette standing above her.
"Collect your wits, Nike." Vangelis instructed with a second nudge of his boot. "Time to test your vigour." With a twist at the corner of his mouth, "Time to see if you've gone soft without me testing you."
His tone was dry but both of them knew his words were naught by humorous face-saving. Vangelis swung his blade in a spun around his wrist and then headed towards the back end of the ship where the helm had been tied off to keep the ship on cause while the sailors slept. He jogged up the steps that would put him in the middle of the open upper deck and waited for Nike to shrug off the sleep and join him.
Time to put his body back to work...
She had taken first watch - not that a watch was needed really, since they were in the middle of the sea, with a rare chance of attack. Yet however rare that chance was, it was still possible danger that lurked, and that meant no one could shirk duty even as the moon hung high in the sky. She had been watchful -Nike always was. She did not earn her position as commander and head bodyguard by being careless in her duties.
It was midnight when another came to take her duty. The breeze was chilly, the kind where no sheet or sack could reduce. She curled up in a corner of the deck, a distance between herself and the rest of her comrades and men under her command whilst not in a war campaign. Vangelis had offered her his quarters - but Nike rarely, if ever took it. Even after a week of the chilly nights and sharp oceanic winds, Nike bit the gun and remained firmly above deck. There was no need to bunk in the same room as his. Nike did not need anything to further this unlucky affliction she's got when it came to her general, and no one else needed to know either.
So she curled up like a prawn cooked, knees tucked to her chest, a light sleeper by nature. When the sounds of heavy feet thunked across the deck, Nike had stirred, and groaned when the boot kicked at her leg. Her eyes flashed, brunette locks flicking over her eye as she glanced up, and rolled her eyes when she saw the visage of her general hovering over her. Illuminated only by the rising sun, yet Nike would take little to know who Vangelis was. She could almost tell his frame by his shadow alone by now.
Luckily for him, she had gotten the appropriate hours of sleep, and now stirred, albeit a little sluggishly from her sleep. With nary a word as the male headed off, Nike dragged on the leather vest that laced up in front, slipped her feet into her own combat boots, and then headed for the rucksack she called her own. There, two swords lay side by side. One, was her commong longsword, the standard issue by the Colchian army upon enlistment.
The other, was the claymore she had purchased the last trip to Taengea, a little under two months ago. She had been practicing with it periodically, a couple of times a week. Heavier then her common longsword, Nike was beginning to realize that she required both hands in order to manipulate and use the claymore properly - but it also gave her the power in her swings that she otherwise could not muster without the muscular build of a male with a long sword. The weight of the claymore therefore gave her the muscular hit of a male - but it also tired her out quicker these days, until her stamina caught up with the new weight, at least.
But she suspected Vangelis wanted practice, from the way he phrased his sentences - so she may as well get some in herself.
Grabbing the hilt bounded in black leather, the claymore's blade gleamed in the rising sun as she unsheathed it, and held it in both hands. A satisfied smile curled her lips upwards - this was likely the biggest thing she's purchased for herself with her own gold, the rest of which was secreted away until she needed it. A part of her was eager to get to work with it - she may as well start now.
Heading where Vangelis had headed for, jogging up the steps as he had, grinning when she met his eyes, and flashed her new claymore at him -she had yet to show it to him properly. "You sure you can handle this, Vangelis?" it was a teasing mock, one familiar between two old friends. Holding the hilt in her hands, Nike got into her defensive position, and then cocked a finger at him. "Come at me then."
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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She had taken first watch - not that a watch was needed really, since they were in the middle of the sea, with a rare chance of attack. Yet however rare that chance was, it was still possible danger that lurked, and that meant no one could shirk duty even as the moon hung high in the sky. She had been watchful -Nike always was. She did not earn her position as commander and head bodyguard by being careless in her duties.
It was midnight when another came to take her duty. The breeze was chilly, the kind where no sheet or sack could reduce. She curled up in a corner of the deck, a distance between herself and the rest of her comrades and men under her command whilst not in a war campaign. Vangelis had offered her his quarters - but Nike rarely, if ever took it. Even after a week of the chilly nights and sharp oceanic winds, Nike bit the gun and remained firmly above deck. There was no need to bunk in the same room as his. Nike did not need anything to further this unlucky affliction she's got when it came to her general, and no one else needed to know either.
So she curled up like a prawn cooked, knees tucked to her chest, a light sleeper by nature. When the sounds of heavy feet thunked across the deck, Nike had stirred, and groaned when the boot kicked at her leg. Her eyes flashed, brunette locks flicking over her eye as she glanced up, and rolled her eyes when she saw the visage of her general hovering over her. Illuminated only by the rising sun, yet Nike would take little to know who Vangelis was. She could almost tell his frame by his shadow alone by now.
Luckily for him, she had gotten the appropriate hours of sleep, and now stirred, albeit a little sluggishly from her sleep. With nary a word as the male headed off, Nike dragged on the leather vest that laced up in front, slipped her feet into her own combat boots, and then headed for the rucksack she called her own. There, two swords lay side by side. One, was her commong longsword, the standard issue by the Colchian army upon enlistment.
The other, was the claymore she had purchased the last trip to Taengea, a little under two months ago. She had been practicing with it periodically, a couple of times a week. Heavier then her common longsword, Nike was beginning to realize that she required both hands in order to manipulate and use the claymore properly - but it also gave her the power in her swings that she otherwise could not muster without the muscular build of a male with a long sword. The weight of the claymore therefore gave her the muscular hit of a male - but it also tired her out quicker these days, until her stamina caught up with the new weight, at least.
But she suspected Vangelis wanted practice, from the way he phrased his sentences - so she may as well get some in herself.
Grabbing the hilt bounded in black leather, the claymore's blade gleamed in the rising sun as she unsheathed it, and held it in both hands. A satisfied smile curled her lips upwards - this was likely the biggest thing she's purchased for herself with her own gold, the rest of which was secreted away until she needed it. A part of her was eager to get to work with it - she may as well start now.
Heading where Vangelis had headed for, jogging up the steps as he had, grinning when she met his eyes, and flashed her new claymore at him -she had yet to show it to him properly. "You sure you can handle this, Vangelis?" it was a teasing mock, one familiar between two old friends. Holding the hilt in her hands, Nike got into her defensive position, and then cocked a finger at him. "Come at me then."
She had taken first watch - not that a watch was needed really, since they were in the middle of the sea, with a rare chance of attack. Yet however rare that chance was, it was still possible danger that lurked, and that meant no one could shirk duty even as the moon hung high in the sky. She had been watchful -Nike always was. She did not earn her position as commander and head bodyguard by being careless in her duties.
It was midnight when another came to take her duty. The breeze was chilly, the kind where no sheet or sack could reduce. She curled up in a corner of the deck, a distance between herself and the rest of her comrades and men under her command whilst not in a war campaign. Vangelis had offered her his quarters - but Nike rarely, if ever took it. Even after a week of the chilly nights and sharp oceanic winds, Nike bit the gun and remained firmly above deck. There was no need to bunk in the same room as his. Nike did not need anything to further this unlucky affliction she's got when it came to her general, and no one else needed to know either.
So she curled up like a prawn cooked, knees tucked to her chest, a light sleeper by nature. When the sounds of heavy feet thunked across the deck, Nike had stirred, and groaned when the boot kicked at her leg. Her eyes flashed, brunette locks flicking over her eye as she glanced up, and rolled her eyes when she saw the visage of her general hovering over her. Illuminated only by the rising sun, yet Nike would take little to know who Vangelis was. She could almost tell his frame by his shadow alone by now.
Luckily for him, she had gotten the appropriate hours of sleep, and now stirred, albeit a little sluggishly from her sleep. With nary a word as the male headed off, Nike dragged on the leather vest that laced up in front, slipped her feet into her own combat boots, and then headed for the rucksack she called her own. There, two swords lay side by side. One, was her commong longsword, the standard issue by the Colchian army upon enlistment.
The other, was the claymore she had purchased the last trip to Taengea, a little under two months ago. She had been practicing with it periodically, a couple of times a week. Heavier then her common longsword, Nike was beginning to realize that she required both hands in order to manipulate and use the claymore properly - but it also gave her the power in her swings that she otherwise could not muster without the muscular build of a male with a long sword. The weight of the claymore therefore gave her the muscular hit of a male - but it also tired her out quicker these days, until her stamina caught up with the new weight, at least.
But she suspected Vangelis wanted practice, from the way he phrased his sentences - so she may as well get some in herself.
Grabbing the hilt bounded in black leather, the claymore's blade gleamed in the rising sun as she unsheathed it, and held it in both hands. A satisfied smile curled her lips upwards - this was likely the biggest thing she's purchased for herself with her own gold, the rest of which was secreted away until she needed it. A part of her was eager to get to work with it - she may as well start now.
Heading where Vangelis had headed for, jogging up the steps as he had, grinning when she met his eyes, and flashed her new claymore at him -she had yet to show it to him properly. "You sure you can handle this, Vangelis?" it was a teasing mock, one familiar between two old friends. Holding the hilt in her hands, Nike got into her defensive position, and then cocked a finger at him. "Come at me then."
Not concerned with the few minutes it took Nike to come out of her doziness and pick up her weapons - they weren't at war, and he wanted her operating at full capacity as they sparred off, so he let her take the time she needed, Vangelis simply stood to one side of the back of the deck, his curved blades in each hand. He was deliberately not using a single weapon so that he wouldn't naturally favour his less injured side; he needed to test out how his whole body would work in tandem and ensure that he was healed. It would do him no good to discover a surprise weakness in his defence due to his accident on the battlefield. Better to do it here where he could be truly tested but not put his life at risk. For, if there was one person, he trusted the most to be able to fight at full power by stay her weapon when required, it was Nike.
When she joined him at the back of the ship, she had disposed of her usual long-sword in favour of a weapon ridiculously large for a soldier of her stature. Vangelis did nothing to show amusement at the change however - at least not physically - and simply raised a brow.
"Are you sure you can?" He quipped back at her. "That looks a little heavy for you, Nike." He said her name in the same way he might have sneered the word "little girl"... and they both knew the taunt was in there.
When Nike smiled and offered him first attack, Vangelis spun his blades in hand, stretching out his wrists and then crossed his arms back and forth across his body for a moment to stretch out his shoulders. He then let go, bent his knees and assumed a comfortable position from which to attack.
Stepping forward, sharply, Vangelis struck out with one of his blades, aiming for Nike's head. She heaved that claymore into place and parried him, despite his speed. He moved to attack again, first from one side with his first blade and then sweeping to attack the other with his left. She parried both of those too.
His movements were fast and decisive but they were singular moves - not formations or combinations, and certainly not his normal fluid series of strikes that behaved as if one led immediately into another. Vangelis was not fighting. He was testing.
Firstly, he was testing himself, checking that his full range of motion was intact as he moved his strikes to come in from all angles and all distances that his arms would allow. Secondly, he was testing Nike, for he had never need her fight with the claymore before and had no idea how far he could yet push their sparring before it became dangerous or difficult for her. He never considered her foolish enough to go into a fight without a secure knowledge of her weapon but - like with him and his injury - there was only so much of your own form and power that you could test. And for each of them, there was no harder test than each other. And considering Nike was a woman, Vangelis didn't even feel uneasy about that.
After a few minutes of back and forth, their steps taking them to one side of the deck and then the other as the pair advanced and retreated in vice versa movement, Vangelis parried a final strike and pushed back, separating them again.
He felt warmer, his body more heated from the exercise, his hands now more grafted and comfier around the hilts of his blades. The sun was probably coming up and several of the crew had started to stir at the noise of metal on keening metal. They were starting to sit up and pay attention.
Vangelis glanced across at Nike, noting a slight flush to her own cheeks and the fact that the both of them had a noticeable quality to their breathing now. Not heavy and certainly not out of breath. But evidence enough that their muscles were being worked.
He gave her his customary half smile.
"Ready to go for real now, Commander?" He asked her raising one of his swords so that he might crook his finger at her, exactly as she had to him...
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Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Not concerned with the few minutes it took Nike to come out of her doziness and pick up her weapons - they weren't at war, and he wanted her operating at full capacity as they sparred off, so he let her take the time she needed, Vangelis simply stood to one side of the back of the deck, his curved blades in each hand. He was deliberately not using a single weapon so that he wouldn't naturally favour his less injured side; he needed to test out how his whole body would work in tandem and ensure that he was healed. It would do him no good to discover a surprise weakness in his defence due to his accident on the battlefield. Better to do it here where he could be truly tested but not put his life at risk. For, if there was one person, he trusted the most to be able to fight at full power by stay her weapon when required, it was Nike.
When she joined him at the back of the ship, she had disposed of her usual long-sword in favour of a weapon ridiculously large for a soldier of her stature. Vangelis did nothing to show amusement at the change however - at least not physically - and simply raised a brow.
"Are you sure you can?" He quipped back at her. "That looks a little heavy for you, Nike." He said her name in the same way he might have sneered the word "little girl"... and they both knew the taunt was in there.
When Nike smiled and offered him first attack, Vangelis spun his blades in hand, stretching out his wrists and then crossed his arms back and forth across his body for a moment to stretch out his shoulders. He then let go, bent his knees and assumed a comfortable position from which to attack.
Stepping forward, sharply, Vangelis struck out with one of his blades, aiming for Nike's head. She heaved that claymore into place and parried him, despite his speed. He moved to attack again, first from one side with his first blade and then sweeping to attack the other with his left. She parried both of those too.
His movements were fast and decisive but they were singular moves - not formations or combinations, and certainly not his normal fluid series of strikes that behaved as if one led immediately into another. Vangelis was not fighting. He was testing.
Firstly, he was testing himself, checking that his full range of motion was intact as he moved his strikes to come in from all angles and all distances that his arms would allow. Secondly, he was testing Nike, for he had never need her fight with the claymore before and had no idea how far he could yet push their sparring before it became dangerous or difficult for her. He never considered her foolish enough to go into a fight without a secure knowledge of her weapon but - like with him and his injury - there was only so much of your own form and power that you could test. And for each of them, there was no harder test than each other. And considering Nike was a woman, Vangelis didn't even feel uneasy about that.
After a few minutes of back and forth, their steps taking them to one side of the deck and then the other as the pair advanced and retreated in vice versa movement, Vangelis parried a final strike and pushed back, separating them again.
He felt warmer, his body more heated from the exercise, his hands now more grafted and comfier around the hilts of his blades. The sun was probably coming up and several of the crew had started to stir at the noise of metal on keening metal. They were starting to sit up and pay attention.
Vangelis glanced across at Nike, noting a slight flush to her own cheeks and the fact that the both of them had a noticeable quality to their breathing now. Not heavy and certainly not out of breath. But evidence enough that their muscles were being worked.
He gave her his customary half smile.
"Ready to go for real now, Commander?" He asked her raising one of his swords so that he might crook his finger at her, exactly as she had to him...
Not concerned with the few minutes it took Nike to come out of her doziness and pick up her weapons - they weren't at war, and he wanted her operating at full capacity as they sparred off, so he let her take the time she needed, Vangelis simply stood to one side of the back of the deck, his curved blades in each hand. He was deliberately not using a single weapon so that he wouldn't naturally favour his less injured side; he needed to test out how his whole body would work in tandem and ensure that he was healed. It would do him no good to discover a surprise weakness in his defence due to his accident on the battlefield. Better to do it here where he could be truly tested but not put his life at risk. For, if there was one person, he trusted the most to be able to fight at full power by stay her weapon when required, it was Nike.
When she joined him at the back of the ship, she had disposed of her usual long-sword in favour of a weapon ridiculously large for a soldier of her stature. Vangelis did nothing to show amusement at the change however - at least not physically - and simply raised a brow.
"Are you sure you can?" He quipped back at her. "That looks a little heavy for you, Nike." He said her name in the same way he might have sneered the word "little girl"... and they both knew the taunt was in there.
When Nike smiled and offered him first attack, Vangelis spun his blades in hand, stretching out his wrists and then crossed his arms back and forth across his body for a moment to stretch out his shoulders. He then let go, bent his knees and assumed a comfortable position from which to attack.
Stepping forward, sharply, Vangelis struck out with one of his blades, aiming for Nike's head. She heaved that claymore into place and parried him, despite his speed. He moved to attack again, first from one side with his first blade and then sweeping to attack the other with his left. She parried both of those too.
His movements were fast and decisive but they were singular moves - not formations or combinations, and certainly not his normal fluid series of strikes that behaved as if one led immediately into another. Vangelis was not fighting. He was testing.
Firstly, he was testing himself, checking that his full range of motion was intact as he moved his strikes to come in from all angles and all distances that his arms would allow. Secondly, he was testing Nike, for he had never need her fight with the claymore before and had no idea how far he could yet push their sparring before it became dangerous or difficult for her. He never considered her foolish enough to go into a fight without a secure knowledge of her weapon but - like with him and his injury - there was only so much of your own form and power that you could test. And for each of them, there was no harder test than each other. And considering Nike was a woman, Vangelis didn't even feel uneasy about that.
After a few minutes of back and forth, their steps taking them to one side of the deck and then the other as the pair advanced and retreated in vice versa movement, Vangelis parried a final strike and pushed back, separating them again.
He felt warmer, his body more heated from the exercise, his hands now more grafted and comfier around the hilts of his blades. The sun was probably coming up and several of the crew had started to stir at the noise of metal on keening metal. They were starting to sit up and pay attention.
Vangelis glanced across at Nike, noting a slight flush to her own cheeks and the fact that the both of them had a noticeable quality to their breathing now. Not heavy and certainly not out of breath. But evidence enough that their muscles were being worked.
He gave her his customary half smile.
"Ready to go for real now, Commander?" He asked her raising one of his swords so that he might crook his finger at her, exactly as she had to him...
The taunt made Nike narrow her eyes at her general, but she should've saw it coming. It was regular banter for military men when they geared up for a spar or training session. Like it or not, a certain amount of emotions went into a fight, and when one wasn't worked up enough emotionally, they would just not have the same amount of energy in a strike as someone pumped upon adrenaline and emotions would. In a regular battlefield, the trepidation and adrenaline would already do the job for them, but for just a regular sparring session, some verbal exchange would be needed to get both parties in the right setting.
So she simply just let the taunt sunk in, smirking as she straightened up. "Why don't you try, and you'll see."
The claymore weighed her down, but Nike's many years of reflex training and attention helped. Her eyes seemed even more focused and attentive as Vangelis attack and struck at her. Heaving with both hands to hold the flat side of the blade over her head, the loud steel against steel crash, ringing loud enough to make the first of the men stir at the rising sun. Gauging his actions, Nike brought the blade down to her right to block that, and then ducked and rolled to let Vangelis's both blades meet each other as she rolled safely out of the way, quickly back on her feet, eyes on his movements again.
Already, her shoulders sore, but it was manageable. She had to get her muscles to that level of being used to the heavier hold of her new weapon, and Nike knew that only through pushing herself, she'll be able to get better. The clang of steel was like a symphony or an alarm to wake the men up, and the ship stirred to watch them, the eyes prickling the back of her neck. Her breathing came harder, a layer of heat settling to eject the chill the night had settled over them. Nike smirked each time they came close, and then pushed off, till the last time Vangelis pushed and she fell back, her heavy boots widening its stance, her arms holding her claymore steady in front of her.
Returning his half smile with a smirk, she barked out a feigned mocking laugh. "Child's play." she retorted quickly.
In two long strides, she held the claymore up over his head, and brought it down, grinning as he blocked the blow, which was now heavier then what she used to be able to do with her longsword. Twisting on her feet, she brought the sword against his chest, testing to see if his reflexes have dulled after a month of being inactive. Continuously going blow after blow even as her arm was sore, Nike was relentless in her flurry, not even giving Vangelis time to think as she swiped with her claymore, going down to swipe at his feet, dodging when necessary, and locking their weapons together to push him off in times.
By the time she spun away, her chest was noticeably heaving by then. But she was stubborn. "Tired, General?" she asked, a dare in her voice.
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The taunt made Nike narrow her eyes at her general, but she should've saw it coming. It was regular banter for military men when they geared up for a spar or training session. Like it or not, a certain amount of emotions went into a fight, and when one wasn't worked up enough emotionally, they would just not have the same amount of energy in a strike as someone pumped upon adrenaline and emotions would. In a regular battlefield, the trepidation and adrenaline would already do the job for them, but for just a regular sparring session, some verbal exchange would be needed to get both parties in the right setting.
So she simply just let the taunt sunk in, smirking as she straightened up. "Why don't you try, and you'll see."
The claymore weighed her down, but Nike's many years of reflex training and attention helped. Her eyes seemed even more focused and attentive as Vangelis attack and struck at her. Heaving with both hands to hold the flat side of the blade over her head, the loud steel against steel crash, ringing loud enough to make the first of the men stir at the rising sun. Gauging his actions, Nike brought the blade down to her right to block that, and then ducked and rolled to let Vangelis's both blades meet each other as she rolled safely out of the way, quickly back on her feet, eyes on his movements again.
Already, her shoulders sore, but it was manageable. She had to get her muscles to that level of being used to the heavier hold of her new weapon, and Nike knew that only through pushing herself, she'll be able to get better. The clang of steel was like a symphony or an alarm to wake the men up, and the ship stirred to watch them, the eyes prickling the back of her neck. Her breathing came harder, a layer of heat settling to eject the chill the night had settled over them. Nike smirked each time they came close, and then pushed off, till the last time Vangelis pushed and she fell back, her heavy boots widening its stance, her arms holding her claymore steady in front of her.
Returning his half smile with a smirk, she barked out a feigned mocking laugh. "Child's play." she retorted quickly.
In two long strides, she held the claymore up over his head, and brought it down, grinning as he blocked the blow, which was now heavier then what she used to be able to do with her longsword. Twisting on her feet, she brought the sword against his chest, testing to see if his reflexes have dulled after a month of being inactive. Continuously going blow after blow even as her arm was sore, Nike was relentless in her flurry, not even giving Vangelis time to think as she swiped with her claymore, going down to swipe at his feet, dodging when necessary, and locking their weapons together to push him off in times.
By the time she spun away, her chest was noticeably heaving by then. But she was stubborn. "Tired, General?" she asked, a dare in her voice.
The taunt made Nike narrow her eyes at her general, but she should've saw it coming. It was regular banter for military men when they geared up for a spar or training session. Like it or not, a certain amount of emotions went into a fight, and when one wasn't worked up enough emotionally, they would just not have the same amount of energy in a strike as someone pumped upon adrenaline and emotions would. In a regular battlefield, the trepidation and adrenaline would already do the job for them, but for just a regular sparring session, some verbal exchange would be needed to get both parties in the right setting.
So she simply just let the taunt sunk in, smirking as she straightened up. "Why don't you try, and you'll see."
The claymore weighed her down, but Nike's many years of reflex training and attention helped. Her eyes seemed even more focused and attentive as Vangelis attack and struck at her. Heaving with both hands to hold the flat side of the blade over her head, the loud steel against steel crash, ringing loud enough to make the first of the men stir at the rising sun. Gauging his actions, Nike brought the blade down to her right to block that, and then ducked and rolled to let Vangelis's both blades meet each other as she rolled safely out of the way, quickly back on her feet, eyes on his movements again.
Already, her shoulders sore, but it was manageable. She had to get her muscles to that level of being used to the heavier hold of her new weapon, and Nike knew that only through pushing herself, she'll be able to get better. The clang of steel was like a symphony or an alarm to wake the men up, and the ship stirred to watch them, the eyes prickling the back of her neck. Her breathing came harder, a layer of heat settling to eject the chill the night had settled over them. Nike smirked each time they came close, and then pushed off, till the last time Vangelis pushed and she fell back, her heavy boots widening its stance, her arms holding her claymore steady in front of her.
Returning his half smile with a smirk, she barked out a feigned mocking laugh. "Child's play." she retorted quickly.
In two long strides, she held the claymore up over his head, and brought it down, grinning as he blocked the blow, which was now heavier then what she used to be able to do with her longsword. Twisting on her feet, she brought the sword against his chest, testing to see if his reflexes have dulled after a month of being inactive. Continuously going blow after blow even as her arm was sore, Nike was relentless in her flurry, not even giving Vangelis time to think as she swiped with her claymore, going down to swipe at his feet, dodging when necessary, and locking their weapons together to push him off in times.
By the time she spun away, her chest was noticeably heaving by then. But she was stubborn. "Tired, General?" she asked, a dare in her voice.
Pleased as Nike taunted him back, Vangelis and she continued to test the other's movement, adjusting their range and their angles... searching for a weakness in the other's defence. One was practicing with a new weapon. The other was recovering from an injury that could jeopardise his movements and his range of protective parrying. Instead of going full on against one another - beating someone in close combat because they were limited or weak was no victory when the goal was to train - the both of them wanted to test out the results of the other's solo practice.
Vangelis found Nike's defences to be slower than normal. The blade didn't rise as fast as her long sword or knives would flash to her aid. This was to be expected with her larger weapon. It was heavier to lift and harder to use and he would have expected the sluggishness. What she did, however, was move her body faster - faster than most men would be able to. Moving in quick and sharp fluidity that compensated for the slower weapon. In the mirror opposite of himself - who moved stoically and defiantly, his sword flashing on either side, Nike moved her body faster and her weapon with more tactical precision. Which meant he was unable to find a weakness in her defence.
He made a note to warn her that she would tire quickly in this manner and needed to work harder and building her upper body strength further so that the sword could take on more of the work. For now, though, he would press that advantage.
When she asked him if he was tired, all Vangelis did in response was start to move faster. He felt his shoulder coming alive as it realised it was in for the long haul and started to swing and adjust his strikes to come harder and faster. He didn't adjust the pattern, didn't change his attack strategy, so she would know when the strikes were coming, but he sped them up to double time, forcing her to move and react still faster with the blade that was too large and took heavy for her to keep up, pressing her to find another advantage to take.
When she did - for he felt sure that Nike would have more to offer than this - he would start to get creative. For now, he wanted to see how she - and his shoulder - would handle the additional speed and intensity of his attacks.
It was as he progressed and they two of them started to reach further and dig deeper, catching parries at the last second and giving into avoid strikes rather than oppose them, that the sailors around them started to make noise, cheering and hissing as advantages were made and then lost.
It had been a long time since they had done this... and just as the sun was fully over the horizon and Vangelis felt sweat starting to bead between his shoulder blades, Vangelis felt himself smiling...
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Pleased as Nike taunted him back, Vangelis and she continued to test the other's movement, adjusting their range and their angles... searching for a weakness in the other's defence. One was practicing with a new weapon. The other was recovering from an injury that could jeopardise his movements and his range of protective parrying. Instead of going full on against one another - beating someone in close combat because they were limited or weak was no victory when the goal was to train - the both of them wanted to test out the results of the other's solo practice.
Vangelis found Nike's defences to be slower than normal. The blade didn't rise as fast as her long sword or knives would flash to her aid. This was to be expected with her larger weapon. It was heavier to lift and harder to use and he would have expected the sluggishness. What she did, however, was move her body faster - faster than most men would be able to. Moving in quick and sharp fluidity that compensated for the slower weapon. In the mirror opposite of himself - who moved stoically and defiantly, his sword flashing on either side, Nike moved her body faster and her weapon with more tactical precision. Which meant he was unable to find a weakness in her defence.
He made a note to warn her that she would tire quickly in this manner and needed to work harder and building her upper body strength further so that the sword could take on more of the work. For now, though, he would press that advantage.
When she asked him if he was tired, all Vangelis did in response was start to move faster. He felt his shoulder coming alive as it realised it was in for the long haul and started to swing and adjust his strikes to come harder and faster. He didn't adjust the pattern, didn't change his attack strategy, so she would know when the strikes were coming, but he sped them up to double time, forcing her to move and react still faster with the blade that was too large and took heavy for her to keep up, pressing her to find another advantage to take.
When she did - for he felt sure that Nike would have more to offer than this - he would start to get creative. For now, he wanted to see how she - and his shoulder - would handle the additional speed and intensity of his attacks.
It was as he progressed and they two of them started to reach further and dig deeper, catching parries at the last second and giving into avoid strikes rather than oppose them, that the sailors around them started to make noise, cheering and hissing as advantages were made and then lost.
It had been a long time since they had done this... and just as the sun was fully over the horizon and Vangelis felt sweat starting to bead between his shoulder blades, Vangelis felt himself smiling...
Pleased as Nike taunted him back, Vangelis and she continued to test the other's movement, adjusting their range and their angles... searching for a weakness in the other's defence. One was practicing with a new weapon. The other was recovering from an injury that could jeopardise his movements and his range of protective parrying. Instead of going full on against one another - beating someone in close combat because they were limited or weak was no victory when the goal was to train - the both of them wanted to test out the results of the other's solo practice.
Vangelis found Nike's defences to be slower than normal. The blade didn't rise as fast as her long sword or knives would flash to her aid. This was to be expected with her larger weapon. It was heavier to lift and harder to use and he would have expected the sluggishness. What she did, however, was move her body faster - faster than most men would be able to. Moving in quick and sharp fluidity that compensated for the slower weapon. In the mirror opposite of himself - who moved stoically and defiantly, his sword flashing on either side, Nike moved her body faster and her weapon with more tactical precision. Which meant he was unable to find a weakness in her defence.
He made a note to warn her that she would tire quickly in this manner and needed to work harder and building her upper body strength further so that the sword could take on more of the work. For now, though, he would press that advantage.
When she asked him if he was tired, all Vangelis did in response was start to move faster. He felt his shoulder coming alive as it realised it was in for the long haul and started to swing and adjust his strikes to come harder and faster. He didn't adjust the pattern, didn't change his attack strategy, so she would know when the strikes were coming, but he sped them up to double time, forcing her to move and react still faster with the blade that was too large and took heavy for her to keep up, pressing her to find another advantage to take.
When she did - for he felt sure that Nike would have more to offer than this - he would start to get creative. For now, he wanted to see how she - and his shoulder - would handle the additional speed and intensity of his attacks.
It was as he progressed and they two of them started to reach further and dig deeper, catching parries at the last second and giving into avoid strikes rather than oppose them, that the sailors around them started to make noise, cheering and hissing as advantages were made and then lost.
It had been a long time since they had done this... and just as the sun was fully over the horizon and Vangelis felt sweat starting to bead between his shoulder blades, Vangelis felt himself smiling...
It was interesting, the dynamic between the two. Despite the disparity in size and the way in which it was obvious how some of their comrades and men in the unit would favor Vangelis to win to 'show that shoe-polishing Commander where his place is', in the words of the ones who still disliked her position, it was as if the two of them were performing a dance to their own beat, quite oblivious to the rest around them. Nike's eyes never left Vangelis the whole time. It was a rookie, fatal mistake she'd rather not make. It didn't help that she was moving slower, the weight of the claymore proving its mettle now after the first rush of adrenaline has wore off. She had improved in terms of upper body strength in the last month or so when she had been training on and off with her new weapon, but a bare few weeks was nary enough to make a large difference yet.
She tried to make up for it as best as she could - her signature speed with the claymore would have to be a long term plan she worked on as she progressed with the weapon. Her shoulders burned at the weight as she made up for it in any way she could with her legs, dodging and parrying as he came at her.
His increase in speed had her bite back a chuckle, her eyes catching hints of the usual speed and strength that she knew her general had. Even when he waved away the concern and questions his family and friends directed at him, none of them ever well and truly dropped their concern. Even Nike, when she acquiesced and began training with him again (too early in her opinion, but she knew better than to argue against his stubborn nature), was wary and watchful of him. Her eyes had been trained on him whilst they were in the harbor reopening festival.
Now though... now was the very first time she breathed a sigh of relief, watching him with the familiar blossoming of affectionate pride as she carefully eyed his advancing on her. Moving in tandem with his strikes, Nike blocked where he struck, steel against steel forming a most unusual call to wake for the soldiers and seamen streaming on to the upper deck. She's trained this pattern of attacks many times with him, enough for her to know by heart where he would come next. But this isn't about outsmarting the other, this was about training his strength, and she was glad when his strikes pushed at her energy and sapped her strength, just like that familiar general she knew.
Catching him just over her shoulder at the very last moment, both blades scraping against the new steel of her claymore, Nike caught his smile and smirked. "Welcome back, Blood General." It was a quick comment, one that was a mix of affection and challenge, her honeyed eyes sparkling in mirth and defiance. She was perhaps one of the few who would use that nickname that was born out of bloodshed and war, in jest with her friend. In a burst of strength, Nike pushed against his weight, steel screeching against steel as she ducked and drove her shoulder right against his middle, in her attempt to push him over by falling her weight entirely on him.
Catching herself before they toppled into a heap on the ground, Nike used her palms to push herself over Vangelis's head, rolling on the deck to a crouched position, spinning quickly on her heel, before darting directly at Vangelis again, aiming to disarm both blades from his hold.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It was interesting, the dynamic between the two. Despite the disparity in size and the way in which it was obvious how some of their comrades and men in the unit would favor Vangelis to win to 'show that shoe-polishing Commander where his place is', in the words of the ones who still disliked her position, it was as if the two of them were performing a dance to their own beat, quite oblivious to the rest around them. Nike's eyes never left Vangelis the whole time. It was a rookie, fatal mistake she'd rather not make. It didn't help that she was moving slower, the weight of the claymore proving its mettle now after the first rush of adrenaline has wore off. She had improved in terms of upper body strength in the last month or so when she had been training on and off with her new weapon, but a bare few weeks was nary enough to make a large difference yet.
She tried to make up for it as best as she could - her signature speed with the claymore would have to be a long term plan she worked on as she progressed with the weapon. Her shoulders burned at the weight as she made up for it in any way she could with her legs, dodging and parrying as he came at her.
His increase in speed had her bite back a chuckle, her eyes catching hints of the usual speed and strength that she knew her general had. Even when he waved away the concern and questions his family and friends directed at him, none of them ever well and truly dropped their concern. Even Nike, when she acquiesced and began training with him again (too early in her opinion, but she knew better than to argue against his stubborn nature), was wary and watchful of him. Her eyes had been trained on him whilst they were in the harbor reopening festival.
Now though... now was the very first time she breathed a sigh of relief, watching him with the familiar blossoming of affectionate pride as she carefully eyed his advancing on her. Moving in tandem with his strikes, Nike blocked where he struck, steel against steel forming a most unusual call to wake for the soldiers and seamen streaming on to the upper deck. She's trained this pattern of attacks many times with him, enough for her to know by heart where he would come next. But this isn't about outsmarting the other, this was about training his strength, and she was glad when his strikes pushed at her energy and sapped her strength, just like that familiar general she knew.
Catching him just over her shoulder at the very last moment, both blades scraping against the new steel of her claymore, Nike caught his smile and smirked. "Welcome back, Blood General." It was a quick comment, one that was a mix of affection and challenge, her honeyed eyes sparkling in mirth and defiance. She was perhaps one of the few who would use that nickname that was born out of bloodshed and war, in jest with her friend. In a burst of strength, Nike pushed against his weight, steel screeching against steel as she ducked and drove her shoulder right against his middle, in her attempt to push him over by falling her weight entirely on him.
Catching herself before they toppled into a heap on the ground, Nike used her palms to push herself over Vangelis's head, rolling on the deck to a crouched position, spinning quickly on her heel, before darting directly at Vangelis again, aiming to disarm both blades from his hold.
It was interesting, the dynamic between the two. Despite the disparity in size and the way in which it was obvious how some of their comrades and men in the unit would favor Vangelis to win to 'show that shoe-polishing Commander where his place is', in the words of the ones who still disliked her position, it was as if the two of them were performing a dance to their own beat, quite oblivious to the rest around them. Nike's eyes never left Vangelis the whole time. It was a rookie, fatal mistake she'd rather not make. It didn't help that she was moving slower, the weight of the claymore proving its mettle now after the first rush of adrenaline has wore off. She had improved in terms of upper body strength in the last month or so when she had been training on and off with her new weapon, but a bare few weeks was nary enough to make a large difference yet.
She tried to make up for it as best as she could - her signature speed with the claymore would have to be a long term plan she worked on as she progressed with the weapon. Her shoulders burned at the weight as she made up for it in any way she could with her legs, dodging and parrying as he came at her.
His increase in speed had her bite back a chuckle, her eyes catching hints of the usual speed and strength that she knew her general had. Even when he waved away the concern and questions his family and friends directed at him, none of them ever well and truly dropped their concern. Even Nike, when she acquiesced and began training with him again (too early in her opinion, but she knew better than to argue against his stubborn nature), was wary and watchful of him. Her eyes had been trained on him whilst they were in the harbor reopening festival.
Now though... now was the very first time she breathed a sigh of relief, watching him with the familiar blossoming of affectionate pride as she carefully eyed his advancing on her. Moving in tandem with his strikes, Nike blocked where he struck, steel against steel forming a most unusual call to wake for the soldiers and seamen streaming on to the upper deck. She's trained this pattern of attacks many times with him, enough for her to know by heart where he would come next. But this isn't about outsmarting the other, this was about training his strength, and she was glad when his strikes pushed at her energy and sapped her strength, just like that familiar general she knew.
Catching him just over her shoulder at the very last moment, both blades scraping against the new steel of her claymore, Nike caught his smile and smirked. "Welcome back, Blood General." It was a quick comment, one that was a mix of affection and challenge, her honeyed eyes sparkling in mirth and defiance. She was perhaps one of the few who would use that nickname that was born out of bloodshed and war, in jest with her friend. In a burst of strength, Nike pushed against his weight, steel screeching against steel as she ducked and drove her shoulder right against his middle, in her attempt to push him over by falling her weight entirely on him.
Catching herself before they toppled into a heap on the ground, Nike used her palms to push herself over Vangelis's head, rolling on the deck to a crouched position, spinning quickly on her heel, before darting directly at Vangelis again, aiming to disarm both blades from his hold.
Vangelis caught himself smiling back at her with her term of address; a term gained in a reputation of violence and terror that she used like an endearment. He had always found it grounding; a balancing force to bring his own sense of identity back into focus. He liked her calling him that. Odd, considering he hated it on the lips of anyone else.
As their iron weapons clattered together into an impasse stalemate, Vangelis held his strength in place, waiting to see what her next move might be.
His brows rose when an adrenaline burst of speed seemed to seer through the Commanders body and send her hard up against him, pushing all of her strength into their conjoined blades. The weapons were pushed upwards, leaving Vangelis' torso exposed and the woman sent all of her force, through her shoulder and into his solar plexus. A spot he had taught her to find. No matter the strength of a man, that particular point in the gut was a weakness to all and his instinctive, physical reaction was for all his limbs to go loose and to be victim to falling back against the strength of her attack.
Holding onto his control enough to keep his blades locked with hers so that she was unable to detangle her weapon and offer a fatal strike, Vangelis allowed himself to fall back, kept the swords out of the way of his face and head and watched Nike's boots as they went up and over his head, her frame folding into a forward roll over his prone form, detaching her claymore as she went.
Quick as a flash, Vangelis was rolled up and onto his knees, his weapons raised above his head protectively - a stance that was hard to defend when given no time to reach back to his feet. Nike knew it and went for the weakness, her claymore raised to strike hard against his grip.
Instead of fighting against such an attack, Vangelis feinted and fell straight back, her target suddenly disappearing from the range of her weapon and his legs swinging out to catch at her feet.
This time it was Nike who went careening onto her back...
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Vangelis caught himself smiling back at her with her term of address; a term gained in a reputation of violence and terror that she used like an endearment. He had always found it grounding; a balancing force to bring his own sense of identity back into focus. He liked her calling him that. Odd, considering he hated it on the lips of anyone else.
As their iron weapons clattered together into an impasse stalemate, Vangelis held his strength in place, waiting to see what her next move might be.
His brows rose when an adrenaline burst of speed seemed to seer through the Commanders body and send her hard up against him, pushing all of her strength into their conjoined blades. The weapons were pushed upwards, leaving Vangelis' torso exposed and the woman sent all of her force, through her shoulder and into his solar plexus. A spot he had taught her to find. No matter the strength of a man, that particular point in the gut was a weakness to all and his instinctive, physical reaction was for all his limbs to go loose and to be victim to falling back against the strength of her attack.
Holding onto his control enough to keep his blades locked with hers so that she was unable to detangle her weapon and offer a fatal strike, Vangelis allowed himself to fall back, kept the swords out of the way of his face and head and watched Nike's boots as they went up and over his head, her frame folding into a forward roll over his prone form, detaching her claymore as she went.
Quick as a flash, Vangelis was rolled up and onto his knees, his weapons raised above his head protectively - a stance that was hard to defend when given no time to reach back to his feet. Nike knew it and went for the weakness, her claymore raised to strike hard against his grip.
Instead of fighting against such an attack, Vangelis feinted and fell straight back, her target suddenly disappearing from the range of her weapon and his legs swinging out to catch at her feet.
This time it was Nike who went careening onto her back...
Vangelis caught himself smiling back at her with her term of address; a term gained in a reputation of violence and terror that she used like an endearment. He had always found it grounding; a balancing force to bring his own sense of identity back into focus. He liked her calling him that. Odd, considering he hated it on the lips of anyone else.
As their iron weapons clattered together into an impasse stalemate, Vangelis held his strength in place, waiting to see what her next move might be.
His brows rose when an adrenaline burst of speed seemed to seer through the Commanders body and send her hard up against him, pushing all of her strength into their conjoined blades. The weapons were pushed upwards, leaving Vangelis' torso exposed and the woman sent all of her force, through her shoulder and into his solar plexus. A spot he had taught her to find. No matter the strength of a man, that particular point in the gut was a weakness to all and his instinctive, physical reaction was for all his limbs to go loose and to be victim to falling back against the strength of her attack.
Holding onto his control enough to keep his blades locked with hers so that she was unable to detangle her weapon and offer a fatal strike, Vangelis allowed himself to fall back, kept the swords out of the way of his face and head and watched Nike's boots as they went up and over his head, her frame folding into a forward roll over his prone form, detaching her claymore as she went.
Quick as a flash, Vangelis was rolled up and onto his knees, his weapons raised above his head protectively - a stance that was hard to defend when given no time to reach back to his feet. Nike knew it and went for the weakness, her claymore raised to strike hard against his grip.
Instead of fighting against such an attack, Vangelis feinted and fell straight back, her target suddenly disappearing from the range of her weapon and his legs swinging out to catch at her feet.
This time it was Nike who went careening onto her back...
He moved just as quick as she did, which wasn't surprising really, since the two trained together fairly often and almost every morning before they returned to the Kingdom. It was one of Nike's regular things to do when they were out on campaign, and she was usually antsy when she didn't get her morning training in. It was more then just a clash of strength and skill between the two of them - it was a challenge of intellect. To see who could keep up with the ideas and loopholes the other presented.
Nike fell back as Vangelis feinted, losing her balance, but not her grip on her claymore. It was the one thing she learned in her days surivivng alone before she had cut her locks and joined the military. So long as she had a firm grip on her weapon, she would have a fighting chance.
As she fell back, she twisted her ankles so it caught Vangelis. Sliding it up his leg and using it to find her target, she tensed her muscles as gravity pulled at her to the deck of the boat, her legs pushing against his knees so it would weaken the joint. Immediately rolling out of the way, her claymore in hand, the Commander left it however, as she rolled to avoid a falling two-hundred pounds or more male body, the woman jumped to her knees, rolling back to smirk at him, watching as he found his feet again.
Her breathe came heavy and deep, the exertions of the morning starting to set in as the sun hung high in the sky now, heating up what was left of the chilly morning. Sweat glowed a sheen on her forehead, matting her dark hair against her forehead, sharp eyes following the movements of her general. Even without her claymore, her fists was clenched by her side, wound up as if ready to move should he start another volley of attacks again.
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He moved just as quick as she did, which wasn't surprising really, since the two trained together fairly often and almost every morning before they returned to the Kingdom. It was one of Nike's regular things to do when they were out on campaign, and she was usually antsy when she didn't get her morning training in. It was more then just a clash of strength and skill between the two of them - it was a challenge of intellect. To see who could keep up with the ideas and loopholes the other presented.
Nike fell back as Vangelis feinted, losing her balance, but not her grip on her claymore. It was the one thing she learned in her days surivivng alone before she had cut her locks and joined the military. So long as she had a firm grip on her weapon, she would have a fighting chance.
As she fell back, she twisted her ankles so it caught Vangelis. Sliding it up his leg and using it to find her target, she tensed her muscles as gravity pulled at her to the deck of the boat, her legs pushing against his knees so it would weaken the joint. Immediately rolling out of the way, her claymore in hand, the Commander left it however, as she rolled to avoid a falling two-hundred pounds or more male body, the woman jumped to her knees, rolling back to smirk at him, watching as he found his feet again.
Her breathe came heavy and deep, the exertions of the morning starting to set in as the sun hung high in the sky now, heating up what was left of the chilly morning. Sweat glowed a sheen on her forehead, matting her dark hair against her forehead, sharp eyes following the movements of her general. Even without her claymore, her fists was clenched by her side, wound up as if ready to move should he start another volley of attacks again.
He moved just as quick as she did, which wasn't surprising really, since the two trained together fairly often and almost every morning before they returned to the Kingdom. It was one of Nike's regular things to do when they were out on campaign, and she was usually antsy when she didn't get her morning training in. It was more then just a clash of strength and skill between the two of them - it was a challenge of intellect. To see who could keep up with the ideas and loopholes the other presented.
Nike fell back as Vangelis feinted, losing her balance, but not her grip on her claymore. It was the one thing she learned in her days surivivng alone before she had cut her locks and joined the military. So long as she had a firm grip on her weapon, she would have a fighting chance.
As she fell back, she twisted her ankles so it caught Vangelis. Sliding it up his leg and using it to find her target, she tensed her muscles as gravity pulled at her to the deck of the boat, her legs pushing against his knees so it would weaken the joint. Immediately rolling out of the way, her claymore in hand, the Commander left it however, as she rolled to avoid a falling two-hundred pounds or more male body, the woman jumped to her knees, rolling back to smirk at him, watching as he found his feet again.
Her breathe came heavy and deep, the exertions of the morning starting to set in as the sun hung high in the sky now, heating up what was left of the chilly morning. Sweat glowed a sheen on her forehead, matting her dark hair against her forehead, sharp eyes following the movements of her general. Even without her claymore, her fists was clenched by her side, wound up as if ready to move should he start another volley of attacks again.
Gods, damnit, they were spending more time on the floor than on their feet!
The thought flickered through Vangelis' mind as he took a tumble to the ground, when Nike applied a swift kick and pressure to his knees. It was a shot he hadn't seen because of the angle he had been at and she had identified it as such. A clear weak spot that anyone else would have been unable to make an opportunity of, given that her weapon had fallen out to one side from his attack - still in hand, but useless to apply towards a strike just yet. But Nike was no ordinary soldier and she had utilised her foot - a foot that should have been swinging through the air, out of control, from her fall, but was - instead - perfectly under her command.
He had missed it. She hadn't. He had gone down.
His back had spent less than a heartbeat on the floor, however, as the attack had been clever in making him fall - unable to press his advantage of higher ground - but hadn't been hard enough to send him over with any kind of force. He was back on his feet momentarily.
Grinning when Nike readjusted her starting pose and stood facing off against him, Vangelis raised his own weapon with determination.
"Don't tell me you're already tired, Commander." He taunted her. And with that he struck again.
For an hour the two of them parried back and forth, assessing each other’s weaknesses, pushing their advantages. Showing where opportunities were to be had; weaknesses in the others' defence. Always were they each able to find a weak link in the other's stance or strategy, but never did that other concede to offer them enough of it to turn it into a fatal blow. They opened and blocked in quick succession back and forth, never giving an inch.
After the first hour of combat the both of them were wet through with sweat and heaving in air, but neither seemed willing to give up. As if through invisible and instinctive communication, the two of them knew that this was starting to become the real test.
Battles were not waged in an hour, nor a day - nor weeks at a time, sometimes. They were on-going, nightmarish promenades of endurance and longitude. The first hour had been them testing each other's ability to fight. The next two tested their ability to survive; a far more important skill in the military.
Their training, rehearsal and muscle memory saving the both of them from falling into sluggish or clumsy motions of attack, Vangelis kept up the accuracy and speed of his strikes, his mind simply clicking into a new frame where it shut out the wet feeling on his skin the clinging of his garments or the screaming of his muscles. His shoulder killed, his thigh burned, and yet he continued to work them - possibly longer than he should have. But he was determined to prove that he could.
By the time the fight was over - won, as was traditional, by Vangelis, simply from a moment in which his physical strength elongated his endurance and he managed to heavier strike later than Nike had the energy to block it - the both of them were breathing as if air were a limited commodity, had limbs so sore they were practically screaming out loud and were both in desperately in need of a bathe if Vangelis' nose didn't deceive him.
They were also on show to the entirety of the crew who had come out on deck to watch and burst into applause when Vangelis was finally able to knock Nike's claymore to one side and secure the edge of his blade under her jawline, winning the bout in a singular moment of masculine strength.
Backing up and away from his Commander, Vangelis grinned at her - one of his exceptionally rare and full-bodied smiles.
"I think it's safe to say we're fighting fit." He commented to her, and then huffed an amused guffaw of laughter and rolled his eyes. "Or were as of three hours ago."
Because right now, Vangelis couldn't seem to breathe, let alone continue to swing his sword with any kind of skill or precision.
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Gods, damnit, they were spending more time on the floor than on their feet!
The thought flickered through Vangelis' mind as he took a tumble to the ground, when Nike applied a swift kick and pressure to his knees. It was a shot he hadn't seen because of the angle he had been at and she had identified it as such. A clear weak spot that anyone else would have been unable to make an opportunity of, given that her weapon had fallen out to one side from his attack - still in hand, but useless to apply towards a strike just yet. But Nike was no ordinary soldier and she had utilised her foot - a foot that should have been swinging through the air, out of control, from her fall, but was - instead - perfectly under her command.
He had missed it. She hadn't. He had gone down.
His back had spent less than a heartbeat on the floor, however, as the attack had been clever in making him fall - unable to press his advantage of higher ground - but hadn't been hard enough to send him over with any kind of force. He was back on his feet momentarily.
Grinning when Nike readjusted her starting pose and stood facing off against him, Vangelis raised his own weapon with determination.
"Don't tell me you're already tired, Commander." He taunted her. And with that he struck again.
For an hour the two of them parried back and forth, assessing each other’s weaknesses, pushing their advantages. Showing where opportunities were to be had; weaknesses in the others' defence. Always were they each able to find a weak link in the other's stance or strategy, but never did that other concede to offer them enough of it to turn it into a fatal blow. They opened and blocked in quick succession back and forth, never giving an inch.
After the first hour of combat the both of them were wet through with sweat and heaving in air, but neither seemed willing to give up. As if through invisible and instinctive communication, the two of them knew that this was starting to become the real test.
Battles were not waged in an hour, nor a day - nor weeks at a time, sometimes. They were on-going, nightmarish promenades of endurance and longitude. The first hour had been them testing each other's ability to fight. The next two tested their ability to survive; a far more important skill in the military.
Their training, rehearsal and muscle memory saving the both of them from falling into sluggish or clumsy motions of attack, Vangelis kept up the accuracy and speed of his strikes, his mind simply clicking into a new frame where it shut out the wet feeling on his skin the clinging of his garments or the screaming of his muscles. His shoulder killed, his thigh burned, and yet he continued to work them - possibly longer than he should have. But he was determined to prove that he could.
By the time the fight was over - won, as was traditional, by Vangelis, simply from a moment in which his physical strength elongated his endurance and he managed to heavier strike later than Nike had the energy to block it - the both of them were breathing as if air were a limited commodity, had limbs so sore they were practically screaming out loud and were both in desperately in need of a bathe if Vangelis' nose didn't deceive him.
They were also on show to the entirety of the crew who had come out on deck to watch and burst into applause when Vangelis was finally able to knock Nike's claymore to one side and secure the edge of his blade under her jawline, winning the bout in a singular moment of masculine strength.
Backing up and away from his Commander, Vangelis grinned at her - one of his exceptionally rare and full-bodied smiles.
"I think it's safe to say we're fighting fit." He commented to her, and then huffed an amused guffaw of laughter and rolled his eyes. "Or were as of three hours ago."
Because right now, Vangelis couldn't seem to breathe, let alone continue to swing his sword with any kind of skill or precision.
Gods, damnit, they were spending more time on the floor than on their feet!
The thought flickered through Vangelis' mind as he took a tumble to the ground, when Nike applied a swift kick and pressure to his knees. It was a shot he hadn't seen because of the angle he had been at and she had identified it as such. A clear weak spot that anyone else would have been unable to make an opportunity of, given that her weapon had fallen out to one side from his attack - still in hand, but useless to apply towards a strike just yet. But Nike was no ordinary soldier and she had utilised her foot - a foot that should have been swinging through the air, out of control, from her fall, but was - instead - perfectly under her command.
He had missed it. She hadn't. He had gone down.
His back had spent less than a heartbeat on the floor, however, as the attack had been clever in making him fall - unable to press his advantage of higher ground - but hadn't been hard enough to send him over with any kind of force. He was back on his feet momentarily.
Grinning when Nike readjusted her starting pose and stood facing off against him, Vangelis raised his own weapon with determination.
"Don't tell me you're already tired, Commander." He taunted her. And with that he struck again.
For an hour the two of them parried back and forth, assessing each other’s weaknesses, pushing their advantages. Showing where opportunities were to be had; weaknesses in the others' defence. Always were they each able to find a weak link in the other's stance or strategy, but never did that other concede to offer them enough of it to turn it into a fatal blow. They opened and blocked in quick succession back and forth, never giving an inch.
After the first hour of combat the both of them were wet through with sweat and heaving in air, but neither seemed willing to give up. As if through invisible and instinctive communication, the two of them knew that this was starting to become the real test.
Battles were not waged in an hour, nor a day - nor weeks at a time, sometimes. They were on-going, nightmarish promenades of endurance and longitude. The first hour had been them testing each other's ability to fight. The next two tested their ability to survive; a far more important skill in the military.
Their training, rehearsal and muscle memory saving the both of them from falling into sluggish or clumsy motions of attack, Vangelis kept up the accuracy and speed of his strikes, his mind simply clicking into a new frame where it shut out the wet feeling on his skin the clinging of his garments or the screaming of his muscles. His shoulder killed, his thigh burned, and yet he continued to work them - possibly longer than he should have. But he was determined to prove that he could.
By the time the fight was over - won, as was traditional, by Vangelis, simply from a moment in which his physical strength elongated his endurance and he managed to heavier strike later than Nike had the energy to block it - the both of them were breathing as if air were a limited commodity, had limbs so sore they were practically screaming out loud and were both in desperately in need of a bathe if Vangelis' nose didn't deceive him.
They were also on show to the entirety of the crew who had come out on deck to watch and burst into applause when Vangelis was finally able to knock Nike's claymore to one side and secure the edge of his blade under her jawline, winning the bout in a singular moment of masculine strength.
Backing up and away from his Commander, Vangelis grinned at her - one of his exceptionally rare and full-bodied smiles.
"I think it's safe to say we're fighting fit." He commented to her, and then huffed an amused guffaw of laughter and rolled his eyes. "Or were as of three hours ago."
Because right now, Vangelis couldn't seem to breathe, let alone continue to swing his sword with any kind of skill or precision.
She didn't waste time responding to his taunt. The many years of sparring with him has taught Nike that the further they went and the more time they spent, the more deadly Vangelis got - injury or no injury. It was like he had to prove something to others just as much as he had something to prove to himself. That he wouldn't go down. That he had it in himself. Not that Nike could ever take him down - she had no muscular proportione to ever do that. But she tried. By the Gods, she tried.
Without giving in even when her muscles ached and her skin burned, Nike parried as he did, no longer taking it easy. By now, he should be cured and better, and she was going to push as much as she took. Her eyes caught every detail, her movements faster - albeit, still sluggish as compared to when she used her longsword. The woman took time getting used to the claymore, and while she could feel its weight getting easier in her grip, to be entirely comfortable with it could be some time yet.
Her chest heaved as the hours ticked by, but stamina was something they had trained over many years. The very first time she had entered the army after the swordsmanship contest she had entered herself in Colchis, she had been young, green and naive. Now, Nike fought with the skill of one who has many years under her belt, and moved at the speed of someone who worked hours a day to hone her capability on the battlefield.
When Vangelis struck a blow that knocked her claymore clean out of her hand, the weapon clattering across her head to the deck of the ship, the woman had fell to the ground, heaving as her large eyes met the gleaming edge of his sword which he had managed to stop just an inch or two before it hit her skull under her jawline. The silence that followed for brief moments later was palpable, before the applause broke out, and the gleaming weapon was retracted from her face.
Laughing, Nike got to her feet, shaking out her limbs before accepting the weapon from a lower soldier who handed it back to her. Making a mental note to polish and sharpen it later, she grinned to his smile - a visage she's always enjoyed seeing, and had been part of her promise to herself to ensure it remained. "I have always been. Speak for yourself." she retorted in a show of stubborn pride, a streak she had gained from hanging out too much with the males of the campaign.
"I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a bath... and a meal." With a shout at the soldiers, it took no time for the watching audience to quickly scurry to their positions, whether be it to remind the kitchen that the first meal of the day was to be served, or to ensure the remainder of the ship was guarded well. Flicking her gaze at the General, Nike smirked as she gave him a wave. "See you at the mess hall, General."
Turning on her heels as her brunette lock fell over her eyes, Nike sauntered off to the lower decks. No bath could be found on a ship of course, but she still intended to grab a wet cloth and wipe herself down before heading for a meal. They had long days ahead, and the session had been necessary for the antsy woman to ensure she was in her top form before arriving at Taengea.
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She didn't waste time responding to his taunt. The many years of sparring with him has taught Nike that the further they went and the more time they spent, the more deadly Vangelis got - injury or no injury. It was like he had to prove something to others just as much as he had something to prove to himself. That he wouldn't go down. That he had it in himself. Not that Nike could ever take him down - she had no muscular proportione to ever do that. But she tried. By the Gods, she tried.
Without giving in even when her muscles ached and her skin burned, Nike parried as he did, no longer taking it easy. By now, he should be cured and better, and she was going to push as much as she took. Her eyes caught every detail, her movements faster - albeit, still sluggish as compared to when she used her longsword. The woman took time getting used to the claymore, and while she could feel its weight getting easier in her grip, to be entirely comfortable with it could be some time yet.
Her chest heaved as the hours ticked by, but stamina was something they had trained over many years. The very first time she had entered the army after the swordsmanship contest she had entered herself in Colchis, she had been young, green and naive. Now, Nike fought with the skill of one who has many years under her belt, and moved at the speed of someone who worked hours a day to hone her capability on the battlefield.
When Vangelis struck a blow that knocked her claymore clean out of her hand, the weapon clattering across her head to the deck of the ship, the woman had fell to the ground, heaving as her large eyes met the gleaming edge of his sword which he had managed to stop just an inch or two before it hit her skull under her jawline. The silence that followed for brief moments later was palpable, before the applause broke out, and the gleaming weapon was retracted from her face.
Laughing, Nike got to her feet, shaking out her limbs before accepting the weapon from a lower soldier who handed it back to her. Making a mental note to polish and sharpen it later, she grinned to his smile - a visage she's always enjoyed seeing, and had been part of her promise to herself to ensure it remained. "I have always been. Speak for yourself." she retorted in a show of stubborn pride, a streak she had gained from hanging out too much with the males of the campaign.
"I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a bath... and a meal." With a shout at the soldiers, it took no time for the watching audience to quickly scurry to their positions, whether be it to remind the kitchen that the first meal of the day was to be served, or to ensure the remainder of the ship was guarded well. Flicking her gaze at the General, Nike smirked as she gave him a wave. "See you at the mess hall, General."
Turning on her heels as her brunette lock fell over her eyes, Nike sauntered off to the lower decks. No bath could be found on a ship of course, but she still intended to grab a wet cloth and wipe herself down before heading for a meal. They had long days ahead, and the session had been necessary for the antsy woman to ensure she was in her top form before arriving at Taengea.
She didn't waste time responding to his taunt. The many years of sparring with him has taught Nike that the further they went and the more time they spent, the more deadly Vangelis got - injury or no injury. It was like he had to prove something to others just as much as he had something to prove to himself. That he wouldn't go down. That he had it in himself. Not that Nike could ever take him down - she had no muscular proportione to ever do that. But she tried. By the Gods, she tried.
Without giving in even when her muscles ached and her skin burned, Nike parried as he did, no longer taking it easy. By now, he should be cured and better, and she was going to push as much as she took. Her eyes caught every detail, her movements faster - albeit, still sluggish as compared to when she used her longsword. The woman took time getting used to the claymore, and while she could feel its weight getting easier in her grip, to be entirely comfortable with it could be some time yet.
Her chest heaved as the hours ticked by, but stamina was something they had trained over many years. The very first time she had entered the army after the swordsmanship contest she had entered herself in Colchis, she had been young, green and naive. Now, Nike fought with the skill of one who has many years under her belt, and moved at the speed of someone who worked hours a day to hone her capability on the battlefield.
When Vangelis struck a blow that knocked her claymore clean out of her hand, the weapon clattering across her head to the deck of the ship, the woman had fell to the ground, heaving as her large eyes met the gleaming edge of his sword which he had managed to stop just an inch or two before it hit her skull under her jawline. The silence that followed for brief moments later was palpable, before the applause broke out, and the gleaming weapon was retracted from her face.
Laughing, Nike got to her feet, shaking out her limbs before accepting the weapon from a lower soldier who handed it back to her. Making a mental note to polish and sharpen it later, she grinned to his smile - a visage she's always enjoyed seeing, and had been part of her promise to herself to ensure it remained. "I have always been. Speak for yourself." she retorted in a show of stubborn pride, a streak she had gained from hanging out too much with the males of the campaign.
"I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a bath... and a meal." With a shout at the soldiers, it took no time for the watching audience to quickly scurry to their positions, whether be it to remind the kitchen that the first meal of the day was to be served, or to ensure the remainder of the ship was guarded well. Flicking her gaze at the General, Nike smirked as she gave him a wave. "See you at the mess hall, General."
Turning on her heels as her brunette lock fell over her eyes, Nike sauntered off to the lower decks. No bath could be found on a ship of course, but she still intended to grab a wet cloth and wipe herself down before heading for a meal. They had long days ahead, and the session had been necessary for the antsy woman to ensure she was in her top form before arriving at Taengea.
Vangelis snorted through his nose at her comment.
"Without me to spar with, I'm sure your skills slipped." He told her with a good-natured twist of his lips. "Fear not, they're back up to par now." He told her with a tone that clearly told her he was joking. Nike was strong - had always been strong. And the fact that they were each holding their own in that fight but never gaining ground - and the fact that she was wielding a weapon she was less familiar with - clearly told Vangelis that she had never lost her edge for a second. And that he wasn't yet at his hundred percent fighting fitness. Not the way he had been before the incident during the storm anyway. He had the strongest suspicion that, had Nike been fighting with her longsword - a weapon that allowed her to move faster and with more familiarity - she would have been victor of their little early morning bout. Something she had never achieved when Vangelis was in peak physical condition.
But he was not concerned.
The two of them had still moved and fought with a superior skill to most - enough so that it had drawn and audience and an applause. Vangelis was not anticipating going to war any time soon. He would have time for his regular morning practices with the Commander. That last little step that would push him back into his role as Blood General; the formidable and unstoppable force, would come in time.
For now, he had more than enough skill to deal with anything skirmishes or training he would meet before then.
As Nike wandered away in search of a bath and food, Vangelis headed for the opposing end of the ship, accepting heart nods and comments of awe from the soldiers for his and the Commander's skill, aiming for the front prow where he would be able to stand and watch as the sun fully escape the clutches of the sea and set itself on its high climb to midday.
After a bath, he would sleep, as he had been keeping watch whilst Nike had slept. But adrenaline coursed through his muscles too much for him to be able to focus on slumber. So, instead, he turned his attention to the view, enjoying the feeling physical exertion had left on his limbs, for the first time in months.
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Vangelis snorted through his nose at her comment.
"Without me to spar with, I'm sure your skills slipped." He told her with a good-natured twist of his lips. "Fear not, they're back up to par now." He told her with a tone that clearly told her he was joking. Nike was strong - had always been strong. And the fact that they were each holding their own in that fight but never gaining ground - and the fact that she was wielding a weapon she was less familiar with - clearly told Vangelis that she had never lost her edge for a second. And that he wasn't yet at his hundred percent fighting fitness. Not the way he had been before the incident during the storm anyway. He had the strongest suspicion that, had Nike been fighting with her longsword - a weapon that allowed her to move faster and with more familiarity - she would have been victor of their little early morning bout. Something she had never achieved when Vangelis was in peak physical condition.
But he was not concerned.
The two of them had still moved and fought with a superior skill to most - enough so that it had drawn and audience and an applause. Vangelis was not anticipating going to war any time soon. He would have time for his regular morning practices with the Commander. That last little step that would push him back into his role as Blood General; the formidable and unstoppable force, would come in time.
For now, he had more than enough skill to deal with anything skirmishes or training he would meet before then.
As Nike wandered away in search of a bath and food, Vangelis headed for the opposing end of the ship, accepting heart nods and comments of awe from the soldiers for his and the Commander's skill, aiming for the front prow where he would be able to stand and watch as the sun fully escape the clutches of the sea and set itself on its high climb to midday.
After a bath, he would sleep, as he had been keeping watch whilst Nike had slept. But adrenaline coursed through his muscles too much for him to be able to focus on slumber. So, instead, he turned his attention to the view, enjoying the feeling physical exertion had left on his limbs, for the first time in months.
Vangelis snorted through his nose at her comment.
"Without me to spar with, I'm sure your skills slipped." He told her with a good-natured twist of his lips. "Fear not, they're back up to par now." He told her with a tone that clearly told her he was joking. Nike was strong - had always been strong. And the fact that they were each holding their own in that fight but never gaining ground - and the fact that she was wielding a weapon she was less familiar with - clearly told Vangelis that she had never lost her edge for a second. And that he wasn't yet at his hundred percent fighting fitness. Not the way he had been before the incident during the storm anyway. He had the strongest suspicion that, had Nike been fighting with her longsword - a weapon that allowed her to move faster and with more familiarity - she would have been victor of their little early morning bout. Something she had never achieved when Vangelis was in peak physical condition.
But he was not concerned.
The two of them had still moved and fought with a superior skill to most - enough so that it had drawn and audience and an applause. Vangelis was not anticipating going to war any time soon. He would have time for his regular morning practices with the Commander. That last little step that would push him back into his role as Blood General; the formidable and unstoppable force, would come in time.
For now, he had more than enough skill to deal with anything skirmishes or training he would meet before then.
As Nike wandered away in search of a bath and food, Vangelis headed for the opposing end of the ship, accepting heart nods and comments of awe from the soldiers for his and the Commander's skill, aiming for the front prow where he would be able to stand and watch as the sun fully escape the clutches of the sea and set itself on its high climb to midday.
After a bath, he would sleep, as he had been keeping watch whilst Nike had slept. But adrenaline coursed through his muscles too much for him to be able to focus on slumber. So, instead, he turned his attention to the view, enjoying the feeling physical exertion had left on his limbs, for the first time in months.
