[ It would be wise of her to compensate for her blindness with other martial styles, to relearn fluidity in combat rather than specialization. Though he speaks to her of polearms, urging her to seek one out, he is secretly glad that she is already accomplished in that style -- he hasn't the heart to teach anyone else combat, not since Anubis.
Never since Anubis.
Silently, he bites the fullness of his lower lip as he listens to her. She answers what he asks of her, and little more, the two of them an awkward and terse pair better suited for violence than they are for comfort. It is all he can do to examine her with his eyes and fingertips, sweeping his palm over one of her bruises to test for depth of injury -- has it reached muscle? bone? she seems hale enough, albeit battered. That is good, he thinks. It is a powerful tool. Hayame is a powerful weapon.
( His hands are marked, both of them; the left with the dark, spoked wheel of the Savant and the left with something miasmatic and sinister, circles and lines following the arc of his wrist, the bumps of his knuckles. It is horrible in nature, a curse that follows him. He is cautious when he touches her with that hand, in particular. Hesitant, wavering. She would have been a powerful weapon. ) ]
It's not untrue, that I value strength above all else. Grace, dignity, wisdom -- none of them matter to me, provided you carry yourself with the strength to conquer all that opposes you.
[ He sets a hand upon the haft of the trident, steadied between where her own hands grasp at it. The red of his eyes finds the black of her own. There is no sorrow in him, as his expression cools, steady and alien in so many ways, despite the human shape of him. ( I may be no better than your hated demon, he had told her. And now, he knew the demon she spoke of. ) ]
It only matters to me that you were victorious, Hayame. I don't care about how honorable you were, nor how fairly you conducted yourself. I see your desire for victory, however violent you must be, however cruel you must be. That's what draws me to you -- the potential you have, to be merciless in your pursuit of what you want.
no subject
Never since Anubis.
Silently, he bites the fullness of his lower lip as he listens to her. She answers what he asks of her, and little more, the two of them an awkward and terse pair better suited for violence than they are for comfort. It is all he can do to examine her with his eyes and fingertips, sweeping his palm over one of her bruises to test for depth of injury -- has it reached muscle? bone? she seems hale enough, albeit battered. That is good, he thinks. It is a powerful tool. Hayame is a powerful weapon.
( His hands are marked, both of them; the left with the dark, spoked wheel of the Savant and the left with something miasmatic and sinister, circles and lines following the arc of his wrist, the bumps of his knuckles. It is horrible in nature, a curse that follows him. He is cautious when he touches her with that hand, in particular. Hesitant, wavering.
She would have been a powerful weapon.) ]It's not untrue, that I value strength above all else. Grace, dignity, wisdom -- none of them matter to me, provided you carry yourself with the strength to conquer all that opposes you.
[ He sets a hand upon the haft of the trident, steadied between where her own hands grasp at it. The red of his eyes finds the black of her own. There is no sorrow in him, as his expression cools, steady and alien in so many ways, despite the human shape of him. ( I may be no better than your hated demon, he had told her. And now, he knew the demon she spoke of. ) ]
It only matters to me that you were victorious, Hayame. I don't care about how honorable you were, nor how fairly you conducted yourself. I see your desire for victory, however violent you must be, however cruel you must be. That's what draws me to you -- the potential you have, to be merciless in your pursuit of what you want.