Swords and Sheilds

The foreign captain preferred not to make a habit of being anywhere near the palace if he could help it. Regardless of who he had been, he was no one in Manthir. It was reassuring. To not have to worry about anyone knowing who he was or ask too many questions. All they did here was make fun of his accent and his eyes. Except for Commander Farrin.

His company had just returned from yet another scouting mission. Hunt had sent in the reports on loses along with what they found out, minus his personal opinions on how utterly pointless it was. Ten percent loses for the knowledge of a camp they already knew about? Of course that wasn't the point. The point was that every member of the Scout's Company was there serving one punishment or another. Hunt was no exception. But unlike his superiors, he cared quite a lot about those ten percent loses.

Today, he had been summoned in full uniform to explain why they found nothing of note. Ostensibly it was because of the numerous traps and raiding parties harassing his men's forward camps. But really he had refused to send out any teams he wasn't directly a part of. They hadn't declared war outright, so there was no other support from the armies and he didn't condone murder.

The Commander gave him a stern talking too. Which was the polite way to say he shouted at him for nearly half an hour. Hunt sorely wished he wasn't fluent in Imperial and could pretend not to understand what he was saying. It was entirely too much swearing and some sort of request to train some nobleman. Hunt wasn't interested, but an order was an order. Still, the moment he was released, Hunt tried to slink his way out of the palace grounds and back to Valur's central courtyard and to anywhere but here.

Unfortunately, he had no idea where he was going in this maze of a palace. He was sure there was some rhyme and reason to it, but it was none of the tasteful yet heavy architecture in Taknier. Either way, he wasn't inclined to stick around and find out. But the next set of doors he came to, after trading salutes with the guards, rather than leading outside to freedom, just led to another interior courtyard. Which, from the number of well clothed and grooms nobles holding staves and steel, had to be just the place he was trying to avoid. Hunt sighed and pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders, firmly ignoring the sword at his own waist. What had the man said? Something about a ring.

His pale gaze swept the courtyard, catching on the taller smartly dressed and sharp featured man moving through a few swings in one of the sparring rings. He seemed a bit stiff, out of practice, but overall his form and footwork suggested proper training in the art of swordsmanship. It was the same style Hunt had been taught growing up. All of that coupled with his golden locks made it all too clear who he was, even before he spoke with that same deep tone his father carried. As if the extra guards that ghosted the Prince weren't enough.

Hunt was committed to turning about and quitting the courtyard, not caring if the excuse that he had gotten lost along the way would fly or not. The bloody Prince? Could Farrin's not have told me? He stiffened as the man spoke to him, with his first name no less. The captain grit his teeth, falling to one knee, left fist to the ground, right hand resting gently on the sword hilt on the same hip. His dark maroon cloak splayed around him, the glint of leather and light metal plating beneath. He longed for hood to tug up and over his face but it was much too late for that.

What would happen if he said no? "Yes, Your Highness." Hunt said, swinging his accent carefully. He hesitated, but considering he had already been spoken to first, he wasn't liable to get his head ripped off. "I was informed you were in need of a...trainer." That had been the Commander's word. Sparring partner was likely too...unofficial to warrant a direct order. Hunt left it vague on purpose, however. He wasn't about to force the royal into something.

Hunt, like most Taknieri, were formal individuals. Exiled or not, he had been raised to display the proper respect for another's station. Whether he agreed with it or not and whether that individual wanted it or not were besides the point. Their culture was quite strict about such things, from the Empire all the way down to a farmer. Respect, hierarchy, and harmony were some of their core values, especially when it came to displaying that to the outside world.

The clipped response was about what the captain expected. So perhaps he hadn't taken to his foreign training all that much. One was always in need of a teacher when present with someone with my skill than themselves. But Hunt would rather not show off to the man at all. Besides, he had relinquished his claim to being a blademaster the moment he was exiled. It was for the best.

He remained on one knee while the Prince chose his words carefully. The captain hid his amusement. Knocked down? What was the man planning to spar with, his fists? The compliment did not escape his notice. Hunt pushed himself smoothly to his feet at the order to stand, grasping his hands loosely behind his back in a more comfortable at ease position, but still clearly not relinquishing the tension as much as the other man wanted. He kept his gaze averted, though it was less out of respect and more a desire not to let the other man study him so deeply.

Unfortunately, much as he would prefer to escape the premises, he had no other duties to see to in the immediate future. And as much as he hated himself for it, he was loathe to go back on his word now that he had run into the Prince himself. Some noble was different. He studied the blonde without looking at him in silence. The Prince...much as he would like to deny it, Hunt would do whatever the man asked. "No," he said simply, clearly divided on being honest, but he had no intention of lying to the man. "But that is why I am here," he added just as simply.

If he had it his way, he would still be in Taknier, fighting men and women twice his age over a small fortune for the entertainment of thousands. Hearing his name screamed over the harsh mountain air by a crowd of hundreds. Feeling the wind on his face and through his hair as he ducked under a swing. It wasn't about the money but about the dance. The flow. The shifting of forms as his blade clashed with that of a foe and sought just a taste of flesh.

But with his exile had come not just the fights but the title he had held. Taknieri's royal family controlled the designation of blademaster, commissioning custom swords as a marker. Turns out pissing off the Emperor and demanding information about the nature of the Princes' assassinations entailed he resign that gift. Not that he needed anyone else to tell him what his calling was.

Hunt was surprised not to either be dismissed or immediately ordered to grab a sword anyway. The joke earned a grimace. Except the Prince had no idea how right he was. "Of a sort, sir," he agreed, though he hesitated to say more. Being honest was one thing, but he would orefer not to out his superior officers. They could do a lot worse to him than this.

He didn't move as the Prince moved to collect weaponry. Practice ones, he supposed. "Sword, sir. That won't be necessary. I prefer steel or if you do not, the use of my sheath." They weren't the perfectly balanced custom blades he was used to, but he had used this sword for a year now and he was comfortable with it.

Why was he still standing here?

He kept his mouth shut. Clearly the man was happy to go along with the punishment idea. He was correct, technically, though Hunt hardly felt it worth a punishment. He had a feeling some of it was innate prejudice, considering he wasn't from here. He lifted his gaze to the Prince at the insult, narrowing his eyes before catching himself and looking away. He took a heavy breath and decided against answering verbally. Let him believe what he wanted.

Hunt raised an eyebrow, confused at his words. Perhaps he wasn't understanding the colloquialism, but he simply hadn't felt he had been dismissed. But the man returning to stand before him with bared steel was enough to connect the dots. Hunt spread his feet slightly and rested his hands on his hips instead. Hunt blinked and looked away as the steel glinted at him, finding the light painful to his sensitive eyes. He hated bright days. Exactly why he had somethines worn a blindfold in the arena. He tightened his hand on the hint of his sword, and nodded.

The captain drew his blade slowly with his left, the silvery metal naerly glowing as it was freed from its confines. Hunt raised the blade hilt to his chest and offered a salute, whipping the blade in an excessive pattern before lowering it again.

In Taknier, sword fighting was an art. Much like dancing, there were different styles and classes. The core ones were named for the elements, earth, water, fire, wind. Each had their strengths and weaknesses, each had various uses depending on the sort of opponent one faced, what weapon they used or the style of sword fighting in turn. There was no set list of moves, but there were common 'steps' one could combine. A true master wasn't simply someone who knew all the steps in every style, or even someone who could combine them in the best or newest ways, but someone who could watch the flow of movement and match it, either in perfect unison or with its perfect counterpoint, all in the heartbeat it happened. Hunt possessed that raw natural talent. And he was loath to share that secret with anyone.

Despite how his heavy cloak hampered his movement, he made no move to remove it. It was certainly chilly, but Hunt was used to cold even more than the men around him. It was also perhaps a quiet way of implying he wasn't wholly invested in the moment. Even if that was a lie.

It was good Jasper decided to make the first move, as Hunt was inclined to wait there all afternoon otherwise. It was not that he was wishing to avoid sparring, or afraid, or even uninterested, despite his general lack of enthusiasm. The man was quite keen on seeing how the Prince fought. From a professional point of view, he would insist. The captain kept his easy stance, blade point to the ground, grip loose. Relaxed as he was, there was just as much alertness in his muscles as in the way the Prince moved. His footwork was better than most, which showed a lot more promise than the stance he chose.

The movement at his hand was a small detail that Hunt found both interesting and unimportant in the same moment. Despite his current residence here, he was not used to the Manthiran painted magic. Wasn't even sure what they called it among themselves. From a distance, he thought it quite lovely, but in this moment, it was only a distraction. He breathed out slowly, narrowing his gaze. He only moved at the last possible moment, preferring to simply step out of the way of Jasper's blade rather than meet it. He did lift his blade just a little, clearly ready for the man to come at him faster next time.

The foreigner had his preferences of stance and style. He utilized the strengths of his body to compensate for the weaknesses. The Prince relied on being fast and clever. Hunt relied on being able to adapt. He breathed in and out deeply as the other man faced him again, taunting him. Why did nobles always feel the need to talk so much? Well, he supposed he could serve to be a bit more social himself, but when sparring or working out, speaking seemed like a waste of breath.

Hunt did raise his blade slightly as the Prince moved toward him again, less focused on his blade alone but his entire being. If he was going to strike him across the chest, he would have to step into him. But he didn't. And wouldn't. His swing would come from somewhere else. The captain moved his blade according, only a split second after the Prince corrected his aim down. The metal of their blades met and almost seemed to sing until Hunt turned him away forcefully as the light hit him.

He grunted softly, stepping back and keeping his guard up even as he closed his eyes. He had lived with his...disability...for as long as he could remember, finding himself extra sensitive to bright light, especially sudden flashes of it. Hunt was surprised the man had picked up on the weakness so quickly, but he hadn't trained most of his life with a blindfold for nothing. Still, it was disorienting for all of a heartbeat, but then, eyes closed, he settled himself, listening and feeling for the Prince to capitalize on his maneuver.