[Though the barracks have seen better days — in a state of disuse and neglect until more recent clean-up efforts had trickled in — Sephiroth finds familiarity in the way the buildings are pressed together in a spartan row, how the design was laid out with military efficiency, with spaces for rest, food, and training being the most paramount of them all. A soldier, even one from a different planet altogether, would naturally gravitate towards this location, like the needle point of a compass twitching north.
He was no different.
Evening threatens to turn the sky a glaucous gray, hanging over a space behind the row of buildings, so barren, so flat, and designed to be so spacious and arena-like, that it could be nothing more than an old training ground, now quiet with neglect.
Here, Sephiroth chooses to train. Each swing of Masamune’s impossibly long blade is a glint of steel and the sound of puling crystal in the half-light. Each turn on the heels of dark boots is trailed by a length of silver hair, the flare of a black overcoat. Green eyes glint with a strange, alien glow. The training dummies, lined up on one side along the perimeter, remain untouched; there’s no point in destroying them completely with a single cut of his sword.
And out here, like this, anyone nearby might happen upon him if they’ve a mind to watch or pass by.]
[here is where Avenger steals away, covered from neck to wrist in black, looking for room to train. mainly he wanted to test his reflexes, if his strength could not be tested - there are a few he could reach out to, ask for their assistance, but not today. still, it seems like he was not the only one with that idea, and he pauses on the edge of the training ground, golden eyes tracking the other man's movements.
he knows what he's doing, that much is for certain. still, it must be dull having nothing to strike against - so in the space between one swing and the next, Dantes speaks up.]
You fight well.
[loud enough to cut through the silence without being boisterous, a genuine admiration there.]
[Dantes’ voice cuts through the silent space in-between one swipe of the sword and the next. Whether or not Sephiroth was aware of his presence is difficult to tell, for he merely straightens, falling out of an offensive stance, and turns his head to look at the other man. Placidity is written all over cool, unreadable features.]
A result of years’ practice.
[The result of being born, bred, trained, and tested, again and again. Genetics, too, to a degree, though he remains oblivious to that much.]
And being away from my planet— it gives me all the more reason to keep my skills honed.
[he nods in understanding, not batting an eye at the idea of another planet - for Servants came from strange depths indeed, and this place called for all sorts. instead, there is a simpler reason he speaks again, the low level fire in his veins constantly there.]
If somewhere in this training yard, I can procure a sword - would you care to revisit your skills with a partner?
[Usually. It is only a partial truth, for half of his reasoning resides in amusement, rising in him with predictability in the midst of battle. Only then is the enjoyment reliable, even if he has to water down his skills to match his opponent. To train or to teach them.
[the equipment in the barracks has been left to fall to disarray, and so digging through it takes a bit. broken things, left to collect dust and rust. but there is a worn leather sheath buried, and when he pulls the sword out - miraculously, it is not rusted. dull in some places, but it will do for a sparring match.
truthfully he hadn't taken up the sword since the days when he had mastered the art of dueling, and even then, half the time people would answer with guns. but the muscle memory is there, and he gives it a few test swings. this will do.
returning back to the stranger, he looks up from under the brim of his hat, faint amusement in his smile.]
[It is rare that Sephiroth deigns anyone with the pull of a smile, just ghostly along the edges of his lips. But the promise of a spar, the potential for some passing amusement, is always that which threatens to unearth it, even amongst strangers. He barely keeps it tamped down beneath his usual stolid look, that assessing glance of feline-esque eyes.
Masamune, his own blade, seems like an over-exaggeration in form and function compared to Dantes’ found weapon. And yet it does nothing to dissuade his curiosity, and Sephiroth makes a motion with a gloved hand, gesturing for him to approach the center of the training yard.]
Enough that I can confidently say I'll hold my own.
[he will not exaggerate - he is no Saber - but he knows a thing or two. and the real prize in this is the action, the unpredictability that comes from a living opponent. it's not about the sword, but the fight itself.]
[He could say that’s a relative statement; that holding one’s own depended wholly on who they intended to cross swords with. But Sephiroth, instead, chooses to take him at this word — for however much that means for a man whose pride hinges on his own skill, his own strength.
Instead, he gestures at the other with a gloved hand.]
[he needs no more invitation to step forward, and what can be immediately grasped is that he's fast when he finally strikes out - in human limits, he hasn't activated his tattoo yet - and that he's someone who searches for critical areas, gaps in the guard to sneak through. raw power only carried someone so far, and he fought to win when weapons were involved.
he wasn't lying about skill, as well - he's been in enough fights to know how to adapt. still, that blade of the stranger's had a wicked reach.]
[He’s fast, but human levels of fast is still manageable for Sephiroth, who raises his impossibly long blade at an angle to block the first strike. There’s a crescent smile seen on his face through the crossed steel, his feet digging into the earth to mildly anchor himself into the ground, making him as good as an immovable object in the moment.]
What’s your name?
[He asks it with a push back, and sometime between their exchange of parries — Sephiroth matching his skill with what is shown, to make the fight longer and therefore more interesting — he notes that he’s a clever fighter, too, for how readily he seeks to engage in any opening he might show.]
[he can tell his opponent is as skilled as his words had said, every movement actually a solid one when he feels the steel clashing, the vibrations that run through the metal and up his arm.
this is only practicing, but his patience is wearing thin. soon, it may grow unbearable, and he'll have to sincerely try.]
[Avenger. That sounds more like a title then a proper name, but who is Sephiroth to talk when he offers his own up, strange even in the context of home? ]
Sephiroth.
[Another strike, meant to push away. He makes a leap back, putting ample space between them with minimal effort.]
[a title that fits him better than any real name, that cloaks him as much as his coat does. the laugh it wrenches from him is harsh, clear - honest, somehow.]
And I yours. It's somewhat refreshing.
[he adjusts his position from where he's fallen back, eyes bright, and his next lunge forward is the speed he's used to, drawing on the power of the tattoo. the energy fuels him, makes him fast - he's stopped playing, it seems, if not intending to kill. only to judge where his opponent stands.]
The sudden uptick in speed is more than human, more than the slow ease that he must usually force himself into when he fights against others. It’s more interesting this way, like fighting another SOLDIER than just a civilian with a sword, and even when he meets each strike with a parry, digging his feet into the earth to steady him a little more, Sephiroth takes pleasure in the way it makes the bones in his wrist shake.
His grip tightens on Masamune, and he lunges low, to meet him with an equally low swipe. He’s smiling now, still faint but not insincere.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action.
He was no different.
Evening threatens to turn the sky a glaucous gray, hanging over a space behind the row of buildings, so barren, so flat, and designed to be so spacious and arena-like, that it could be nothing more than an old training ground, now quiet with neglect.
Here, Sephiroth chooses to train. Each swing of Masamune’s impossibly long blade is a glint of steel and the sound of puling crystal in the half-light. Each turn on the heels of dark boots is trailed by a length of silver hair, the flare of a black overcoat. Green eyes glint with a strange, alien glow. The training dummies, lined up on one side along the perimeter, remain untouched; there’s no point in destroying them completely with a single cut of his sword.
And out here, like this, anyone nearby might happen upon him if they’ve a mind to watch or pass by.]
no subject
he knows what he's doing, that much is for certain. still, it must be dull having nothing to strike against - so in the space between one swing and the next, Dantes speaks up.]
You fight well.
[loud enough to cut through the silence without being boisterous, a genuine admiration there.]
no subject
A result of years’ practice.
[The result of being born, bred, trained, and tested, again and again. Genetics, too, to a degree, though he remains oblivious to that much.]
And being away from my planet— it gives me all the more reason to keep my skills honed.
no subject
If somewhere in this training yard, I can procure a sword - would you care to revisit your skills with a partner?
no subject
[Usually. It is only a partial truth, for half of his reasoning resides in amusement, rising in him with predictability in the midst of battle. Only then is the enjoyment reliable, even if he has to water down his skills to match his opponent. To train or to teach them.
Not that Dantes, of course, needs to know that.]
Find a blade and I'll be here.
no subject
truthfully he hadn't taken up the sword since the days when he had mastered the art of dueling, and even then, half the time people would answer with guns. but the muscle memory is there, and he gives it a few test swings. this will do.
returning back to the stranger, he looks up from under the brim of his hat, faint amusement in his smile.]
This one should do for me.
no subject
Masamune, his own blade, seems like an over-exaggeration in form and function compared to Dantes’ found weapon. And yet it does nothing to dissuade his curiosity, and Sephiroth makes a motion with a gloved hand, gesturing for him to approach the center of the training yard.]
How experienced are you?
no subject
[he will not exaggerate - he is no Saber - but he knows a thing or two. and the real prize in this is the action, the unpredictability that comes from a living opponent. it's not about the sword, but the fight itself.]
no subject
[He could say that’s a relative statement; that holding one’s own depended wholly on who they intended to cross swords with. But Sephiroth, instead, chooses to take him at this word — for however much that means for a man whose pride hinges on his own skill, his own strength.
Instead, he gestures at the other with a gloved hand.]
Then show me.
no subject
he wasn't lying about skill, as well - he's been in enough fights to know how to adapt. still, that blade of the stranger's had a wicked reach.]
no subject
What’s your name?
[He asks it with a push back, and sometime between their exchange of parries — Sephiroth matching his skill with what is shown, to make the fight longer and therefore more interesting — he notes that he’s a clever fighter, too, for how readily he seeks to engage in any opening he might show.]
no subject
[he can tell his opponent is as skilled as his words had said, every movement actually a solid one when he feels the steel clashing, the vibrations that run through the metal and up his arm.
this is only practicing, but his patience is wearing thin. soon, it may grow unbearable, and he'll have to sincerely try.]
no subject
Sephiroth.
[Another strike, meant to push away. He makes a leap back, putting ample space between them with minimal effort.]
I appreciate your enthusiasm.
no subject
And I yours. It's somewhat refreshing.
[he adjusts his position from where he's fallen back, eyes bright, and his next lunge forward is the speed he's used to, drawing on the power of the tattoo. the energy fuels him, makes him fast - he's stopped playing, it seems, if not intending to kill. only to judge where his opponent stands.]
no subject
The sudden uptick in speed is more than human, more than the slow ease that he must usually force himself into when he fights against others. It’s more interesting this way, like fighting another SOLDIER than just a civilian with a sword, and even when he meets each strike with a parry, digging his feet into the earth to steady him a little more, Sephiroth takes pleasure in the way it makes the bones in his wrist shake.
His grip tightens on Masamune, and he lunges low, to meet him with an equally low swipe. He’s smiling now, still faint but not insincere.]
Holding back? There’s no need.