goneawayworld | spar log!

((feel free to actionspam from this if you'd like!))

Although training sessions put him in a better mood, Guts will be intent on going off by himself as soon as any group exercises were done, as he often seemed to do. It wasn't an easy process getting some of his equipment back to practice with, so he intends to make the most of it.

He is off at some empty corner of the training deck to swing his sword by himself. Despite the presence of extra supervision that came with temporarily being given some of their tools back, nothing of note would come to pass. Guts had no interest in rebelling here - he didn't even feel like being particularly nasty at the guy watching over him. This activity was just a way to get his mind to shut up for a few hours - a meditation or ritual of sorts. He didn't care about being watched as long he didn't have to talk.

And so, he would do what he always does: practicing his strikes and footwork in what must've been hundreds of diligently performed repetitions. At times he would swing so many vertical strikes in a row he seemed to get lost in the action itself. It was well beyond simply committing the attack to memory.

Very little of the exercise could be considered particularly flashy, except for the fact that his sword was more like a coffin-shaped metal slab than an actual sword. The crude iron arm attached to his missing limb didn't look sophisticated enough to be able to move on its own, but it could grip onto the sword's tang. That was good enough for him.

Ronan would have to be the most unobservant person in the world to miss someone with an iron arm swinging around a giant sword. Whatever he planned to do to blow off some steam, it was now officially on hold.

He walked over. "You look like you know what you're doing. How good are you with a regular sized sword?"

Guts stops the exercise, leveling a look at this new arrival while resting the blade on his shoulder. He recognizes the guy's face from sheetcake hell, though they've never properly met. Even if Guts didn't make any particularly strong effort to socialize, he at least observed them all from afar.

"Not really my preference, but a sword is still a sword," he says. He's trained with multiple weapons as any mercenary worth their salt ought to do.

"Why? Are you a swordsman?"

[Setsuna came in here to work off some energy and maybe do some exercises via the equipment, contemplating trying to keep herself in some sort of reasonable athletic trim, expecting maybe she might find Adora, or Catra, someone she knew in here if she found anyone at all, but honestly not really thinking about anyone except herself in what she expected to get out of this. she needs to think, and mindless physical activity should keep her thoughts primed enough to work through some of her thoughts.]

[she is, to say the least, not prepared for what greets her when she chances a look at who else is occupying the training area.]

[what the hell is happening, there, exactly.]

[no, really, just ... what.]

[It's just a guy swinging his sword around!

Guts happens to be very involved in the action, as a matter of fact. Unless she speaks up or gets in his way, hes going to continue moving along with this little murder dance of his. He's practiced it quite a bit by this point.

A step forward here, a twist of the blade there. There's a stirring of the still air where the metal slab slices through with a dull hum. The roughened heap of a weapon had its own sort of simple grace when wielded properly. ]

[she's never seen anything like that. she's just struck genuinely dumb.]

[her feet only sort of consciously move her closer, against all sense and sanity, unable to look away from this vulgar spectacle.]

[that could kill someone, and not decently.]

[it's not that Setsuna's never fought for her life, never fought knowing that winning might mean she has to take someone else's life, it's just that she's the sort of person who's grown attached to the idea that she doesn't have to, and that she'd rather fight to the pain or the resolution than ever to the death, or the horrible maiming.]

[that is a weapon, and a use of it, where its purpose begins at maiming, at best, and where dying to it looks like it would be a mercy.]

[she's horrified. just what kind of use would Jorgmund have for something like that? is that what she has to come to terms with, to have any hope of passing as someone who can accept what they're proposing?]

[if it is, she can't afford to look away, can she?]

[Guts takes a few steps backwards, getting closer, too focused on what's ahead to particularly notice the girl behind him. While she was concerned with the unfortunate consequences of the metal slab cleaving flesh, he was counting the swings. How many enemies could he cut down before his arms gave out on him?

It's a test of himself as well as the sword. It's been good while since his last major battle, giving him precious time to recover. Even then, the exertion leaves him sweating and carefully monitoring his breaths. Curse it all - as well as he'd been healed, his body just isn't the same as it was years ago. All the heavy beatings he put himself through were starting to catch up with him. Will he have enough left in him to make it through yet another journey? Frustration seeps into those swings, becoming a less technique and more simple emotional outlet. He focuses on bringing that heap of metal down with all his might.

All these thoughts are interrupted when he catches someone out of the corner of his eye mid-swing. What he intends to be one wide horizontal sweep has its trajectory altered through grit teeth. Diagonally it cuts, the very tip sweeping way too close to the girl's head for comfort. It takes a tremendous effort to halt the thing's momentum once it starts, but he manages, keeping it pointed up and away.]

Hey - !

[ The blade remains hovering in place.]

You got a death wish or something? Get away from here.

[she doesn't realize how close she's walked - much less consider what's compelling her to step that close - until the hollow whistle of the large slab that only barely merits the label of "blade" comes within shrieking distance of her face, far faster than she could have dodged it without being braced for just that.]

[she dodges anyway, too late to have saved herself if he hadn't stopped his own swing before she even registered what was happening, reflexes nonetheless flinging her to the side and down in a curled-up cartwheel, eyes suddenly blown wide in adrenaline-pumping panic.]

I - [she fumbles.] I - what is that thing?!

It's a sword.

[Guts says this as if there's nothing odd about smacking invisible demons with a thing that has more in common with a construction beam than a sword. For him, its just an extra chunky weapon in his hand that he uses to kill stuff with. His favorite chunky weapon, in fact.]

I hack up enemies, remember?

[He isn't actually sure if this girl saw the message he spat out onto that network post. He just sort of spoke at the device and assumed every New Hire could hear him.]

After he'd taken in Guts, Ronan eyed his sword. "No, but I had one before I got here. Jorgmund took it. For all I know, they destroyed it." They seemed like they that would. No one had exactly been happy to see such an unreal weapon.

"I'm better with my fists." He clenched his hands and held up a perfectly formed fist. Ronan's father hadn't trained him in boxing for nothing. Then he lowered it. "Not much use against that." He jerked his head at Guts's weapon.

Saturday came out here to attack training dummies, and she is honestly having such a good time right now. Her supernatural inability with tech means that every sparring session with the computer is a new adventure, and right now she appears to be re-enacting the old "would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?" question, except the ducks and the horses have razor teeth and claws.

Some of you have probably seen her fight before, against animated furniture and in the gym. For those who haven't: she moves like a flash flood, inescapable force and unimaginable speed, weaving between opponents who go down in a flurry of blows, four of hers for every one hit they manage to get off - and most of theirs miss. None of hers do.

When the Big Duck enters the scene, she grins, leaps, and lands on its back. It squawks in outrage, flapping off the ground, as she wraps her arms around its unreasonably large neck and starts to squeeze.

It's not that she doesn't have other ways of doing this. She just really, really wants to see if she can get it in a sleeper hold.

Saturday's taken a break from her own workout and is sitting on the sidelines, hydrating. She's watching Guts with a careful eye, appreciating his skill and also looking for his openings, blindspots, favorite moves. They do owe each other a bout, after all, and it'd be plain silly not to take him seriously. He's certainly going to do the same for her. She's also not hiding her admiration; that is seriously cool, and he's seriously good with it.

When he pulls off a particularly elaborate bit of shadowboxing, she cheers.

So this one knew how to fight with his fists, at least.

"I see."

Guts has a feeling where this might be headed. The morning training didn't really cover something as archaic as sword fighting. If Jorgmund apparently kept his own equipment around, then this guy's sword could very likely still be somewhere on the Rig.

"There are batons if you'd like to spar."

Guts reaches the end of that particular chain of attacks with a familiar voice catching his attention. He stands up from the lowered stance of the final extended thrust forward. The weight of his weapon often necessitated quite a bit of work for his legs as well as his upper body, it seems. Cycling through some basic moves was enough to get a good exertion.

Well, looks like his time for cleaving invisible monsters in half would have to be put on hold. Saturday wouldn't be a bad person to spend a break with. So, with the flat of the blade resting on his shoulder, he'll greet her with a content enough look on his face.

"How long've you been there?"

"'Bout five minutes." She grins up at him, shading her eyes in a gentle mock of how he towers over her. Especially because she's sitting cross-legged on the floor. "You sure you're not an adept? That sword's a beast."

Her own blade is nowhere to be seen, though if he was paying attention, she was definitely using it earlier.

Not any kind of sword I've ever seen!

[she manages to pull herself together enough to stand up relatively straight, again, slowly getting her breathing under control till she's only taking in a ragged inhale slowly, instead of rapidly.]

What are you talking about?!

Ronan wasn't one to turn down a good fight, even if it was just practice. And if he ever did get his sword back, it'd help to have an idea of how to use it other than the very basics.

"Yeah, sure. I don't have anything better to do." Ronan stretched his arms, lacing his fingers together before cracking his joints.

A wiser man would ask for Guts to take it easy on him and just show him the ropes. Ronan was not that man.

"All right."

Getting straight to the point was more Guts' style, anyway. Batons it is. The metal heap of a sword will be rested on the ground at the edge of the arena. A guy using a thinner blade shouldn't be trying to parry that, anyway.

He returns with two repurposed plastic poles ganked from some other area of the gym, ones he that were close in length to a longsword. They weren't sharp, but being smacked around by one doesn't look like it'd be fun.

Ronan will be getting one tossed in his direction. He's ready to start.

Elsa is in a training session because this is where Jorgmund insists she be during these hours. She's grateful for the unsupervised ones, where Reid Planker isn't present: they mean she can take the time to breathe and rest.

And....watch someone fight many small horses and headlock a very large duck?

She can't look away. This is one of the strangest things she's ever seen. She has no idea what to make of it, so she sort of stands there, fidgety and slackjawed.

"Do you need any help?" she calls, once she works up the confidence.

"It's good for cutting monster hides. Regular swords tend to break on 'em."

He turns the Dragonslayer on its edge. It's not particularly sharp, but when something that massive is swung at breakneck speeds, it's going to do unpleasant things to whatever unfortunate thing gets caught in the way.

He sits down next to her to dry off and cool down, getting comfortable on the ground. Right now, he feels like enjoying the simple silence of being near good company, it seems. He looks a lot calmer than he did in their room or at the party.

Her bottle of water gets a curious glance, though. Now where did she get that?

Edited 2020-04-29 07:49 (UTC)

[Guess she didn't see it...]

Nevermind. Just stay the hell away.

[Perhaps his tone is a bit rough when he says it, but it's out of concern more than anything else. Even if his face is creased with more aggression than worry.

Whether or not Jorgmund would punish him for it, Guts wouldn't be able to forgive himself if the hit landed from his own carelessness. Too close. ]

[rrrgh. she isn't even sure why that gets her hackles up - fear and feeling condescended to are not emotions strange to her but they're also not emotions she enjoys reacting to, either, and she's spent a lot of time trying to marshal the way she was encouraged to respond to them.]

[she is also in a strange place filled with a bunch of reasons why she's not really able to keep up all those happy thoughts and friendships that remind her people are basically good and she is also basically good and can resolve problems kindly.]

[though - he stopped his swing, before she could protect herself from him. she noticed it. maybe he thinks she didn't. maybe he thinks she shouldn't have noticed.]

[that makes her come to a decision, somewhere between the two warring sensations jackhammering in her chest, and she grits her teeth and huffs, and then takes a step closer, eyes hard and determined.]

You don't scare me. Do you even know how to fight someone without that - 'sword'?

"Nah, I'm good!" Saturday calls as the duck bucks and shrieks, sounding unreasonably cheerful. "Gimme a sec - "

The neck is just too thick. She can get her arms around it, but there's no leverage to squeeze. The duck gains another foot of air, monstrous beak open on a mouth of grotesque, backwards-facing teeth as it bellows.

"Yeehaw!" Saturday lets go of the neck, holding on with her legs alone for a split second, which is all the duck needs. It shakes and she slides off, hitting the ground in a front roll and coming up with a sword in her shining metal hand - a sword which appears to have no scabbard or any other holder on her person that Elsa can see. The massive duck charges, and Saturday meets it.

For a moment, anime-style, time stands still.

Then the duck collapses in a heap of little square holocubes, which vanish. Saturday whoops and turns to Elsa, grinning.

"Hey, what's up?" she says, sheathing her sword as she steps out of the ring. This happens very oddly; she pulls up the sleeve on her metal arm, exposing the wrist, which opens up like a wound in the metal. Her sword slides neatly in, hilt and all, merging with the prosthetic like so much clay. "Don't think we've met. I'm Saturday."

She extends her metal hand to shake.

((unrelated but I did a height comparison for Guts and Saturday im dyin))

"More of a bludgeon than the pure blade, innit?" Saturday notes, observing the sharpened but very thick edge. She notes that he seems calmer, and thinks it's a good thing. Save your fight, that was what pops always told her. If only it hadn't taken so goddamned much for her to listen and understand what he meant.

She offers him her water. "Thirsty? They got a fridge over by the locker room. Buncha sport drinks I don't trust but the water seems okay."

'Don't trust' is putting it mildly. She's pretty sure gatorade isn't supposed to smell so - powdery. And she wouldn't put it past Jorg to drug them for performance without asking.

"There's snacks, too." That had been, for her, the most important part. Even if they were gross nutrition bars, they were calories, and they were unsupervised. She'd filled her pockets.

Edited 2020-04-29 13:57 (UTC)

Ronan caught the pole. He looked it over, trying to picture how this would translate to a sword. He tried a practice swing. It didn't feel at all like his sword but how could it? It wasn't part of himself. It was real.

He frowned. It was better than nothing, he guessed. He pointed it at Guts. "Okay, let's go."

spar log!

open prompt

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[tagspam ahoy]

aww yeah!!

[imagining guts kool-aid manning into the behelit and screaming]

[smashes through screaming GRIFFIIIIIIIIIITH]

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open prompt, reposted because I am very silly and clicked the wrong button

Re: open prompt

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