Swords and Sheilds

His blade brushed against the Prince's clothes, dangerously close but even had he not stepped back, all Hunt would have cut was fabric. He had a feeling if he drew blood, the anxious fuards at the edges of the courtyard would have more than words for him. The foreigner wasn't looking for jail time. Or yet another exile.

Hunt was not interested in grappling. With or without his eyes closed. The Prince's fingers closed around his sleeve and Hunt resisted the urge to pull away, letting the Prince spin and twist him around. Having his arm pulled behind him ached, but he allowed it for only a moment, still with his blade in hand. He flipped his grip around to his back hand and simply pressed the flat of it to the Prince's stomach. A deadly blow even without a powerful swing behind it. "Yield." He said, tapping his blade against him for emphasis. As if this was a duel. Hunt had no tolerance for this to become a scrap. If not for who exactly had his wrist bending behind his back, he would have demanded to be released, largely because it hurt. A lot. But he didn't order the Prince to do anything.

Hunt grunted as he was released, taking a step back and sheathing his blade so he could massage his wrists and elbow. Certainly not the worst thing done to him, but it wasn't pleasant. He was tempted to slam his blade into the dirt and ask for a real duel, but he knew that was stupid and immature. Instead, he forced himself to flex his fingers and breathe and push forward. Not to forget, but to keep going. He couldn't be upset for more or less winning their non-fight.

"You Manthirans spar like it's a fight," he commented, giving away his nationality even without his accent. His dark hair made that somewhat easier to guess, even if his pale eyes did not. "You did say you wanted someone who would not fall over, no?" He finally looked up at the man as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye only to watch the Prince remove his shirt. "I am alright," he clarified, looking over toned muscle and more than the implications of abs and hips. He traced over the viens in his forearms and then followed the serpent-like tattoo that he knew wasn't just a tattoo. The man was often jealous of what Manthirans could do with their bodies. It was more than a little attractive in a strange sort of way. Alluring. He had seen female dancers in Taknier, troupes that performed for entertainment mostly, showing off their moves and the art they could create on their bodies to tell a story.

The captain looked away just as quickly, rubbing a hand over his eyes, using the excuse that they hurt to pull his gaze away. "I believe this will not be adequate punishment, your Highness," he tacked on, straightening up. He made no mention to the use of the Light to blind him. If the Prince wanted to know, he would have to ask.

Hunt nodded. He certainly agreed with the saying. But it wasn't the point he had been trying to make. "Always be prepared for a fight," he simply echoed instead, though in his head, he explicitly translated it to his native tongue. The phrase was both pretty and more...visceral that way.

The soft concern was surprising. Especially about his eyes. Not that all Manthirans demeaned him for it, so he supposed the Prince might not know. "You need not concern yourself with my problems, Your Highness," he said evasively. He had learned to cope and accept how he was. Jasper's manipulation of his weakness to his advantage hadn't made anything worse.

Hunt only flexed his wrist and shoulders, preferring not to comment on the royal's skills one way of the other or on the fact he might face further punishment later for man handling the crown prince. "Not punishment," he said, not at all a believer in the tactic. "Practice. Instruction." That thing the man had laughed at when Hunt suggested as much before they sparred. He nodded but this time only removed his dark cloak and tossed it outside the ring. He did not draw his blade. "Let us try something else. Let's say you just have to touch me with that blade?" Not a fight, but a targeting exercise. A mildly dangerous one with real steel but Hunt had more armor on than the Prince as it was. But it did require a lot of trust, if Hunt let the man get a hit in.

Hunt found that idea ridiculous. It was a nice ideal and all, but not a realistic one. The captain would much rather keep it to himself and if not for how annoyingly observant the Prince was, might have succeeded. All he could do now was ignore it and hope the man didn't pursue debilitating him in that way. But he expected he might anyway.

Hunt unbuckled his sword and stepped over to his cloak to drop it there, effectively disarming himself but for the visible knife in his boot that he had no intention of grabbing. He felt confident enough in his own abilities and while he had only seen the Prince's skills a little, he hoped the man had enough control not to maim him.

When the man was silent, Hunt looked back up at him. Yes, just touch him. "With that steel, not your hands, Your Highness," he added, not sure from his silence if he understood. The point was sword practice, not grappling. "Dance? No, I want to spar."

Hunt was dashing in Manthiran military uniform. The black he would agree was his color but not so much the maroon. Most of it was leather and fabric that did a decent job of hiding anything else about his physic. He wasn't nearly as tall as the Prince, but he was clearly comfortable with his movement. Hunt returned to the center of the circle and clasped his hands behind his back loosely. "When you are ready."

Hunt wasn't very interested in people, but largely that was due to to his choice of profession. He was dedicated to combat in his past life and now, in Manthir, he was a soldier. He wasn't looking to break any hearts when he inevitably got himself killed.

He nodded as the man repeated the condition back to him. Not that he outright denied the use of his hands, but clearly the Prince could grapple and fight hand to hand. This wasn't the time to practice that. This was about the feet of steel in his hand. He frowned, hands on his hips, keeping his gaze to the side. "This one does not find swordsmanship a joking matter." Another noble might have agreed. Even another soldier. But not Hunt. Mostly because he breathed sword combat. But a little because he didn't want this man to like him. Or perhaps he didn't want to let himself like the Prince. He would agree the art form held a lot of beauty in it.

The captain watched the Prince move. He had a good idea of how the man threw his weight around and had a feeling this would be a good workout for both of them. The Prince was likely stronger than him, but he would have to catch him first. Hunt held his ground again until the Prince brought his blade into play. He side stepped and leaned away, playing hard to get but not moving so far to make the man play chase. He did the same with his next few swings, side stepping or leaning away or twisting just out of the way of his swings and stabs. He kept one hand forward as if holding a phantom blade, movements quick and flowing but brief. There was no wasted motion and the momentum of one dodge he easily shifted into the next. He had no intention of taking it easy.

The shorter stabs and swings made Hunt work a lot harder. He panted and started to sweat despite the cold, but didn't pause, pushing himself. Normally, he put a time limit on this exercise. Real fights could be short, only a single attack or counter. Without something to defend himself with, playing a game of cat and mouse was even more difficult and taxing. But he wanted to push himself too, not just the Prince. If he had to be here, he would make something of it.

Hunt ignored the snake, focus3d on Jasper's movement. He was a bit more restrained but no less aggressive. Keeping himself in front of the captain was an interesting tactic but Hunt supposed if he were fighting back, that would be safer.

The moment he changed tactics made it clear he wanted to try something else. Hunt closed his eyed and focused. Place his feet. Follow his movement. Listen to his breathing. Feel the air moving. The captain dropped under the stab, pivoting as he did. He swept his leg out in an attempt to trip the Prince up, finding it easier to control his momentum with the movement before rolling away and back to his feet. He sucked in a deep breath and steeled himself to go again.