Description: Actual title: 'Amy Johnson and the Temple of Bish'. In which our globe-trotting heroine is surprised to meet a flamboyant warrior from her master's homeland... and even more surprised to discover he has not been despatched to locate her. Could this be the start of a beautiful friendship, or just the first of many painful lacerations?
Vashno Devi Mandir. The holiest place in all of India, nestled in the Himalayan stretch, and at this warm time of year, positiviely gorgeous. It's a common attraction in these lands, for both tourists and pilgrims, but for this time, the place is primarily deserted. Only one sorely out-of-place adventurer stands at the tallest point of the shrine, facing out an overlook to survey the mountain stretch around him. Even with the season, the air at this altitude is chilled, and a wind is in constant motion, toussling with his cape.
There's no telling how long Vince has been here. He arrives yesterday on the mountains and made camp for the evening, then ascended to this place today. His backpack is set in the middle of the floor before the shrine itself, seeing as he's not seen another soul here insofar. He realizes there are likely monks hiding and lurking, but.. he'll deal with that when the time comes.
Humanity thrives on faith, feeding on the intertwined mythologies present in all religions to the point that - in the thriving global community of the modern world - so many lines have become blurred and indistinct. Many people flock to this lofty shrine, resting place of a goddess whom half the western visitors probably assume made an appearance in the latest Star Wars flick.
But while the homogenization of culture may seem to detract from ancient glories, this is only really true for those who sit at home and view the world through a screen. To those who make pilgrimages, the spirit of discovery is still very much alive; and nothing can fully prepare the eyes, nor the soul, for the sheer majestic energy that runs through a place like this. The sheer depth and height of the mountainous terrain is breathtaking enough.
For those who make it, the journey only enhances the arrival.
The first sign that Vince has company is likely to be the sound of clitter stirring, a myriad of tiny rocks dashing away down the craggy mountainside. It's hard to hear over the wind, as is the continuing climb of the other visitor to the shrine. Booted feed scuff and clunk over the terrain, the odd application of a hand increasing the approaching pilgrim's volume as she nears the teenage adventurer above. Finally, there is a bleat...
...and the fuzzy, vaguely comical head of a llama pops up a few metres away. It chews thoughtfully, pausing upon the crest to glance about the site of the shrine, finally settling upon Vince. After a few seemingly endless moments it gives another croaking bleat and with clumsy grace lurches up onto the relative flat before the temple. This, naturally, brings it closer to the Frenchman. It chews again, hawks, and-- a hand descends firmly upon it's rump, a very human sigh sounding as the beast's owner pulls their aching body past the final hurdle.
"Please," comes the distinctly feminine, and distinctly middle-class English, murmur, "Of all the places you could possibly pick to do that... don't do it here."
The owner of voice and llama both - for yes, it is festooned with packs and even a handy shovel - is none too large, none too Indian and certainly doesn't look like a tourist. Her boots and trousers are practical and a little worn, while the top half is swathed in a thick hooded coat made from some rough fur-lined leather any self-respecting westerner would be disgusted to see on sale outside of a hippy boutique. Her face, for what is visible inside the hood, is pretty enough if sunburned and ruddy from the wind.
If the conversation with her phlegmatic pack animal didn't give it away, Amy does not initially notice Vince. Indeed, as soon as she's done speaking she flumps against the side of the llama, burying her face in the packs festooned about it's flank.
The sounds of tumbling rocks first catch Vince's attention, tugging him gently from his reverie. The second, far less subtle deviation from the serene gets a stunned, even bewildered look on his face. Vince is...
..being accosted by an Awkward Llama.
Unable to form any sort of coherant thought apart from 'It's a llama!', Vince simply gawks back at it. And then it dredges closer.. and a woman appears. A hooded woman, but a woman all the same. Still, the noble retains his silence for a few moments more, attempting to garner what information he can about this sudden appearance. In the end, though? He finds little else to say, but: "Quite the climb, isn't it?" It's intended to be a lighthearted jab, silky smooth voice laced with just a hint of Francais.
"......"
It's one of those bizarrely audible silences that follows Vince's casual comment, and the young woman's form visibly freezes as she digests the unexpected sound of a human voice. All the more so, as this one is no more Indian than her own. After a moment, Amy lifts her head and pushes gently away from the unprotesting beast, glancing toward the youth before she takes a step forward, tugging at the topmost fringe of her hood by way of greeting.
"You could say that," she replies tentatively, no smile touching her lips as she considers Vince carefully, deep, dark blue eyes flickering over his form and then meeting his gaze. "You're... from France." Her tone is distant - clearly this statement is as much for her own benefit as anybody's. The apparition before her is almost enough to convince her that she's suffering from altitude sickness.
Her hand lifts again, this time - questioningly - to her breast. "Are you looking for me?"
"Nantes, oui," replies Vince easily. He's used to getting odd looks for his manner of dress. He rather enjoys it, really. Most folk, he's found, are generally more pleasant than insulting about it.
In recognition of her greeting, however, he pinches the edge of his hat to tip it in gallant fashion towards her. "M'lady, I'm afraid not. Are you in danger, or being followed? Something shadows your footsteps?," he querries.
As Vince confirms his origin, a frown mars the woman's rather sore-looking forehead.
"Never been there," she faintly replies, shifting her footing subtly. Clearly, she is not immediately given to trust this strange figure. An understandable reaction, though her manner suggests something other than mere confusion. She glances him over again, a slow blink of her eyes following his questioning.
"No... not that I know of. Should I be worried that there might be? I came alone. Figured I'd be alone now, too. It's not exactly tourist season. Are... /you/ alone?" Her stance only lends further to the fair assumption that her guard has been raised. She looks sidelong, out over the lofty valley where mountains meet, but does not remove her attention from Vince for long. "Hard to believe you would be, dressed like that. Did you bring a guide?"
"Nothing here other than myself and the winds," Vince replies calmly. His guard doesn't seem to be elevated, and he bears no semblance of apprehension. Despite his reason for being out here, his spirits seem to be in a good place right now. "You must be thirsty."
With that, he turns to move away from her and towards his backpack. He crouches before it and begins rummaging about. "The feet need no guide to tell them how to move forward," he tosses over his shoulder. Given a moment, he retrieves a cylindrical canteen and pivots, extending it out to her.
"Thirsty?" The Templar glances sideward once more, and takes an introspective moment to taste her lips, the point of her tongue touching dry flesh. She shrugs and reaches toward the proferred container. "I suppose I am. Thank you. I wanted to get here before nightfall - camping out in this cold is killing me. I'm new to the whole globetrotting thing."
She says nothing more for the moment, pausing to uncap the canteen and sniff cautiously at the contents before sipping. Untrusting in the extreme, though granted there is nothing untoward about Vince save his appearance. The odd coincidence of his origin may indeed be that, and nothing more. There are many Frenchmen in the world, and few countries can boast so many eccentric specimens. The man she calls master is a perfect example of the phenomenon.
Whatever the reasoning, after drawing a few short sips of the liquid she passes the container back with, at last, a smile flaring faintly upon those newly wetted lips. "Sorry. My life's pretty complicated, though I can assure you if I carry danger behind me then it's through no fault of my own. I'm.. Amy. Pleased-- well," she amends herself hastily, extending her left hand past the sleeve of her coat, "Certainly /surprised/ to meet you."
Vince raises to his full height again and moves back to where he stood before, watching her with what could only be considered amusement behind those icy blue eyes. "Vince LaRose," he replies, his own hand edging out to take hers - not for a handshake, though. Certainly not. Unless she protests, she'll find her hand settled atop his suddenly, his thumb gently tapering her fingers downwards. Next, the hand will more or less glide upwards to meet with his head as it tips oh so very subtly downwards to grace upon its back a ghost of a kiss. Nothing more, but nothing less.
"Enchanted."
And then, the hand is released.
"What would bring you to this clearly inconvenient, lofty abode, if I may ask?"
True to form thus far, Amy's arm momentarily tightens as it is brought under Vince's gentle control. She makes no sudden movements, beyond the amused lifting of an eyebrow as realisation quickly dawns. He may be young, but he has clearly been given a traditional education.
"Bold," the Templar notes with a faint shrug, retracting her arm to rest about her midriff, the other crossing over it. It's some concession to trust that she drop her wary stance even now. "And you may ask, but I may not choose to answer more than I care to. I... I'm looking for something. I highly doubt I'll find it here, but better people than I have failed to find it in the obvious places."
She allows herself a grin, mirth entering stormy irises as she settles back on her heels. "I think under the circumstances I have to throw the same question back, Vince. Clearly you're not here on your year out - unless it's for some kind of bet."
"No more bold than suitable, my lady," replies Vince with more a bemused look than before. "And you know what they say about hidden objects, yes? They always turn up the last place you look." He takes a moment to 'collect' himself, so to speak, pulling his hat off and running his gloved hand through his hair to ruffle the blond locks. "I'm travelling where the wind takes me for now. That is all."
'My lady'. That elicits sudden laughter from the hooded woman, a peal of mirth she fails to suppress before it disturbs the conversation. When she regains control, it's with an embarassed clearing of her throat. She is not used to having her demeanour threatened... though her brave new world seems full of surprises that succeed in breaking a guarded countenance.
"Interesting," she replies when the youth finishes speaking, pausing to suck in a deep breath of cool air before she continues, "This is the last place I'd think to meet a sixteenth century nomad." Except for, perhaps, a bustling nightclub in Leeds. "But then, I'm hardly what you'd expect either."
Turning away with a sigh, she puts a hand out to steady the steadily chewing llama as she approaches it. Her other lifts to dig about in a waxed satchel, a small bundle emerging when she's done. Leisurely unwrapping it, she holds the package out toward Vince. "Jerky? Not exactly haute cuisine, but we take what we can get out here." Whether or not he accepts her offer, she pulls out a strip for herself before loosely tucking the foodstuff back into it's bag.
"Sorry if I seem short. Like I said, it's complicated. I'll be here for a couple of days though. I actually came looking for a holy man; and some answers. I don't suppose you ever noticed the similarities between Shakti and the virgin mother?"
Vince sets his hat back atop his head a little more slowly, giving her a more curious look at the laughter. It's probably his mannerisms, he rationalizes. It oftenly receives this sort of response. But it is simply the way he is. Go figure. "..Why not?" And he proceeds to take a bit of the offered jerky. He can recognize it for what it is (or seems to be): a gesture of good will. "I'd hardly put any stock in expectations for you," he admits. "You're clearly not a native to these lands, and you seem to've come without escort, yourself. You are, in fact, a mystery."
Jerky is then chewed thoughtfully.
Chew.
Chew.
"Shakti?"
"Shakti," Amy echoes in turn, having busied herself in pulling her hood back; to reveal a mess of wild black hair, clearly used to being worn long and straight. Currently, it is lank and knotted from the journey. "'The Divine Mother'. I'm surprised you've not heard the name. Surprised, if a little relieved."
She allows the enigmatic comment to settle as she tears off a small strip of meat, speaking over the less-than-delicate mouthful, "All this," her head cants in the direction of the nearby structure, "Was erected in her name. I'm here because someone told me there's some significance to my own faith. Or at least, somebody else believed there was, a long time ago. Religious myth all tends to converge somewhere. You'd be amazed how often different faiths have come into synergy."
"I come without an escort because I'm on a personal journey. Travelling with others only endangers the experience I might otherwise have." She almost sounds like some kind of monk; it would certainly explain her reverence in preventing the llama from gobbing freely over the sacred site. "Believe me, I'm as much a mystery to myself. How about you, though? 'Travelling with the winds'. It's a beautiful idea, but everyone has some kind of purpose. Looking for something in yourself, or hoping to find fresh perspective?"
Vince looks thoughtful at first, but his youth gets the better of him. A boyish grin etches over his lips, and he quips, "Is my presence deterring your journey, then?," teasingly. He then resumes with the jerky whilest listening to her, head tilting just faintly to the right side. The silvery feather abob in his hat tilts along with this. "Me? I favor the winds, and they favor me..."
It seems he also favors enigmatic prose. But after saying that, his left hand gently lifts upwards. The wind begins to gather in a gentle funnel beneath the hand, gradually becoming more a visual, smoky gray entity.
"Wind is pure and free. It's a slave to no one, and has the potential to act as God's sweeping hand of judgment." The wind intensifies in that localized area, the gray darkening and not only visibly growing more severe, but now quite audible. "At the same time, it has the power to save, revitalize others." And as one might expect, the gray dims until it's only a silvery swirl beneath his hand. "The wind, I think, is the purest force of nature. Power, but generosity. Wrath, yet mercy. If I'm to follow any lead when I have no direction of my own, what better whisper should accompany?"
Amy favours Vince's jocular remark with a chuckle, eyes lowering from his to cast about the ground and further afield, once more over the mountainside. She forms no riposte though, content to allow his own conclusion to be drawn. There is no barb in her manner now; the answer is most likely 'only if I allow it to'.
Her gaze, returned to the wandering rogue while she finished speaking, rests upon him for the display that follows; more accurately, upon his hand. She shows no particular sign of astonishment beyond a dim flash of recognition. It should not be surprising that Vince possesses some uncanny power, when she had already assumed as much by his very presence. And by his appearance. Who but such a talented individual would brave the mountains of northern India in less than full sherpa gear? The weather can turn for the worst at the drop of a hat. Even Amy is underdressed.
"Well," she pauses to consider the youth's question, gnawing for a moment upon her bottom lip, "I can't say that wasn't a.. flowery answer, but I think I understand. Someone with your affinity would gravitate to a place like this as a matter of course. Mind," she tears off another strip of jerky and chews a few times while she wags the remaining chunk toward Vince, "It says a lot about you that the call didn't go unheeded. I might cite another purpose, but we're all searching for what lies closest to our souls. My soul..."
Suddenly she thrusts the last of her morsel into a side pocket, and loosens her wrist with a twist before raising her hand before her, fingers curled loosely toward the palm. A faint tendril of grayish smoke appears to trace the lines in her flesh, but rather than remaining controlled and tight, as others breathe to life around it they are carried out between the two warriors. Amy smiles, and moves to retrieve the piece of jerky, allowing the mistlike energy to whip away on the winds. "...is a little different."
The swirling, silver-streaked wind continues to whistle below Vince's hand, guided along its cylindrival, spiraling pattern of upwards and downwards movement for a few seconds more.. before finally, his hand is clasped shut, somehow causing the wind to scatter in all directions. True to its appearances, it -does- appear to be rather wind-like - refreshing, crisp, but fairly gentle.
"Be a masterful artist in all that you do - that is the LaRose way," Vince muses back to her.
But her own display has started. Just when he was going to snag the last bit of jerky from her, she's gona and squirreled it away again. With what appears to be smoke. This is obviously different from Vince's own manipulation of chi, but it's closer than most others at the same time. "Different, yes," Vince agrees, observing the smoke intently, almost expectantly. "But similar, I think. No?" The icy blues lift back to the woman.
Striving for mastery. It's a concept Amy is more than familiar with; having pushed herself here through an unfamiliar country, alone and well equipped only through her own efforts. Keep in mind the effect of your own actions - be the master of your intent, and then may you gain an illusion of control. True control, true mastery of self, can only follow through persisent experience.
Perhaps they share several similarities.
"Yes," Amy concedes to that end, looking at Vince with fresh appraisal in her eyes. As if considering how much more she should say. "We're all unique in our way, though. It's.. hard to discern from such a simple thing, isn't it? Even among the outwardly identical there is often a deep gulf - whether in form, or understanding. The spirit, the soul, is something that can't be replicated."
The Templar pauses to shake her head, as if clearing the threat of a revery. Her voice, already more thoughtful, gains faintly in pitch and volume as she turns away to retrieve the barely-esconced bundle of food, "I'd be happy to show you more, if you let me rest awhile first. I've never tried to move quickly in altitude like this..." she extends the bundle back toward Vince, "That's.. assuming we share another similarity. The way you stand, the fact you're even /here/... suggests we do."
"I would never presume to call us the same," Vince admits readily. "There are quite a few obvious differences, both cosmetic and underlaying!" He seems to've taken this with mirth, at least. His smile has brightened, becoming more pleasant and somehow more true to his age as a teenager.
The bundle is regarded curiously, then politely turned down with an uplifting of his left hand. "What other similarity would you be refering to, praytell?"
"Absolutely," the Templar smoothly agrees with Vince's comment - that there are differences. Her own expression brightens in turn as she tips her forehead toward him, glancing to the edge of his face, "Your hair is a lot neater than mine." Not quite conceited enough to laugh at her own small jocularity, she drops her attention to once more tidy her belongings, this time strapping the satchel shut with some finality. Little and often appears to be the axiom.
"The similarity," she replies as she turns, one hand idly rearranging her locks a little after reminding herself of how mussed she has become, "That means neither of us is particularly bothered about travelling alone, without guides or fully suitable clothing, in a place most westerners would only dare to tread knowing they had good medical insurance and could get a hot cup of tea once they'd reached the temple."
Or, to put it bluntly... "If the LaRose mastery extends to the martial arts, I'd welcome the opportunity to see how. Your philosophies seem to be fairly interesting, you've clearly got some conditioning, and well?" She rolls her shoulders in a shrug, "It's been a couple of weeks since I really loosened up. I can't think of anywhere better to refocus my energies."
Vince warrants her a snickering, though. "With great care and tenacity in taming it, I assure you. Relentless work, it is."
He, however, falls silent at her explanation. Then her extrapolation causes him to incline his head slightly, studying her. "I see.." His left hand, active as it seems to be, traces its index and middle fingers down the pommel and polished handle of the rapier sheathed at his side. His right hand, meanwhile, does the same with one of the numerous stiletto "rosettes" surrounding his belt. "I take it you're unfamiliar with the intricacies and elegance of Rose Dansant. A pity. I wouldn't mind giving you a demonstration... though.. it -would- be a shame to mar you with steel."
It would be foolish not to have accounted for the weaponry ringing Vince's waist; but this in itself does not necessarily denote a warrior of noted ability. Least of all in the northern mountains, where bandits are known to surface and firearms require constant maintenance. A moderately trained fencer with a keen blade could fight off most desperate marauders without relying on any fancy powers.
When the youth's hand strays to his blades, it all but confirms the answer before it is verbally given. Amy glances from steel to penetrating blue eyes, shaking her head faintly at the name of the Frenchman's style. Even had he fought in a hundred sanctioned matches, she would be unlikely to have encountered the style in her education. What with ancient history and the word of God to occupy her, she is no expert in the martial ways. Not yet.
That doesn't prevent a short laugh at his gallant remark. "Believe me, it wouldn't be the first time. I've had my share of cuts and scrapes... if more bruises than holes. My peers favour broadswords and maces over more elegant weaponry." Which, to judge by the slight cynicism in her tone, and the twitching of her fingers at her side, extends to more than just Vince's choice of arms. The body is a weapon too. "I'm not exactly planning to get swept off my feet anytime soon, though. No need to go easy."
Flashing a somewhat feral grin, she sets about pulling off her heavy coat, and then moves to take a seat upon the clittered ground, breathing in slowly as she settles. "I need a moment, in any case. My legs stopped listening to me four or five hours ago - it's been willpower all the way."
So what for purpose does she sit - meditation? Prayer? ...or none of the above. Grunting softly, the Templar stretches her tired limbs, and then begins to massage the aching muscles. Better safe than sorry. Despite being the one to make the proposition - rare in itself - she is far from hasty...
"Non, by all means, take your time. Rest. If I'm to risk cutting you, I would prefer you be rested enough for an adequate defense," Vince insists. He, meanwhile, retrieves a rosette hanging at his right hip. The slim dagger is spun along his middle finger around the leaf-handguard. This movement he continues, apparently for no more reason than to keep himself occupied.
"Why would you choose to fight? What reason would you have?" The question is just eased into the air, though not tentatively.
Despite her wearied state in reaching the temple site, Amy already appears greatly reinvigorated. As dextrous digits rub at taut muscle, ensuring an absence of knotting, she breathes deep and steady, slipping into the focus that she deems more necessary than relaxation. Indeed, the additional test will be welcomed - the fact Vince is an unknown quantity only adds to the tingle of excitement.
Why would she choose to fight? The question goes unanswered for many moments, until the woman changes position to squat, knees straining to the sides parallel with her hips and feet stretching out behind. "Well," she begins in a strained tone, as her palms apply to the floor for greater leverage, "If you mean generally, it started as a way to keep myself occupied. I had a lot of cynicism and anger when I was younger. My," she hesitates, lips silently framing a couple of possible words before she puts voice to one, "Guardian paid for home tuition. I wasn't exactly sociable, so it worked out."
Settling back on her heels, she remains kneeling as she loosens her arms, gently swivelling the joints from shoulder to fingertips. "I fight because it keeps me balanced, mentally and physically. In the here and now..." Trailing off, she rises to her feet, kicking out each leg in turn before bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. "You're interesting. I make a point of knowing where I stand with interesting people. If we share a common pursuit, then why not test ourselves there? You can learn a lot about a person by the way they respond in battle."
Pragmatic answers. Logical enough that there may be something deeper, and undisclosed. But the Templar shows no sign of this - any assumption would be exactly that. "Why do you ask?"
"Curiosity. Females that fight are a bit.. unusual." Vince pauses then, thumb and index finger catching the rosette by its blossom. "Unusual isn't the right word. ..Not as expected so much?," he ventures, gaze shifting over to her. He then spins the stiletto back over, sheathing it along his belt.
"Standing already, I see," he notes with a raised eyebrow.
"I never placed much faith in what is and isn't expected. You can feel free to call me unusual, though," Amy smiles at that, regarding Vince with a brightness in her eye that suggests a certain eagerness. Not only is she standing, but apparently energetic to boot. It could be the joys of adrenaline, but those dubbed 'fighters' are ever an uncanny bunch. There is always the possibility of something more.
"Just bear in mind you're not exactly fitting the status quo yourself." It's worth noting at this point that without the burden of that bulky overcoat, the woman is clad in a snug leotard, dark and long-sleeved. Offering little in the way of warmth, it allows freedom of movement, but also makes visible the dainty religious symbol handing from her neck on a leather cord. Bright, shining silver, the cross is a sure affirmation of the belief she has already hinted toward possessing.
Notable, because before confirming that she is standing and prepared, she looks meaningfully toward the steps and columns nearby. "Would you mind if we shifted a bit further away? I don't want to offend the locals by spilling blood on their place of worship."
Vince tilts his head just slightly to the side. "Whatever does your ladyship mean?," Vince asks, feigning ignorance. But given a second more, and he's smiling ruefully again. "So be it."
Vince begins striding a little further away from the grounds - but not too far. The most of the area is cliff, after all, and he doesn't want to risk mishap. His specialty -is- wind, after all. But once reaching what he figures would be an acceptable distance, he turns to look at the girl.
"You're sure about this?"
No response is required to the Frenchman's 'innocent' query, nor is one given save a dry chuckle that comes around the time his lips quirk upward. It may be an innocent concession to his presumed joke, or it could be further amusement at his use of the honorific. The pre-exhilarated sheen over Amy's dark blue eyes gives nothing away; beneath that, they are void of emotion.
Those few who know the woman well would take this alone as confirmation of her certainty. As she follows Vince silently, intensity overcoming any other concerns in her mind, her mind is honed to a point. Her stride matches his, bold and lacking any traditional idea of femininity. When she comes to a halt a moment after he, she is already entering a stance.
"When dealing with a mystery, can anybody be sure?" She replies distantly to his question, raising her arms once her feet have come to rest. Her fingers curl against the air, a soft prickle raising the hairs at the nape of her neck as she allows her warrior's instincts to rise. The environment responds, though whether or not Vince senses it is another matter. Ever-flowing motes of chi rise, bidden by a silent cry, and - ever so faintly - takes form in every direction around them. Greyish wisps emerge over the seconds that follow, and these are not so readily carried by the winds as in Amy's earlier display...
But as the saying goes, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Most would not notice at all. "I won't know until we begin - and nor will you."
COMBATSYS: Amy has started a fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Amy 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Vince has joined the fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Vince 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Amy
"Not exactly the reassurance I was looking for, but...," Vince trails. He does seem to have some reservations about harming her. Likely something to do with a code of honor or somesuch. Pesky things, those. But nevertheless, his rapier is suddenly free from its sheath and in his right hand, blade glinting under the sunlight. "Well, then... en garde."
The blade flashes into a high guard position, setting himself into the typical fencing stance.
Only the speed he moves in is anything but. Vince suddenly springs from his location to hers, body bluring from the untrained eye's vision. He ends directly in front of her, blade plunging towards her chest. Only in the process, a swirling wreath of smoky gray wind energy builds along the length of steel - which then lances out at the girl as the blade drives forth, seeking to pierce into, and back out of her.
COMBATSYS: Amy blocks Vince's Venteuse.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Amy
That they both possess a concept of honour is another common trait. It is easy enough to reason that Vince also holds gallantry in high regard - his physical greeting alone said that much. Amy does not consider herself a female worthy of such efforts, however. In taking the vows she has, in taking the burden she has, no such concept need be applied. It is reassuring to her that the youth does not hesitate any further.
She believes herself up to any challenge, because such belief is necessary for constant progression and improvement, but his approach is admittedly too fast for her to truly track. Instead, she trains herself away from the visual, relying on only a snapshot of the last visible instant to estimate his position. That portion of her causing the mists to brew around them may give some further signal, for when the rapier's tip emerges from the blur she is already on the move, left foot trailing through the dirt as she sinks her shoulder into the strike and flows around it.
She is not talented enough to entirely evade the rapid thrust... but it would appear she never intended to be. A sharp exhalation marks her only concession to the pain as Vince's weapon slices past her flank, cutting a bloody swathe through the flesh over her ribs. But she continues with her motion, arms shifting gracefully in tandem with her legs as she smoothly drifts past the duellist.
A counterattack seems inevitable, but it does not come. Rather than remain beside her opponent, Amy suddenly launches herself along his initial approach path, dropping low to the ground to end her controlled lunge some dozen feet away. An unorthodox tactic, and should Vince deign to follow her he will miss the very point of it. Those smoky tendrils of her own have already grown in number, and those nearest converge in a rapid strike following the Templar's seeming retreat.
The lashing tendrils only seek to follow their mistress. But she seeks to impact Vince with a series of strikes, each knot of mist solidifying when it ought to flow around him. If his next decision lacks wisdom, it will be a painful introduction to Amy's chi control.
COMBATSYS: Vince blocks Amy's Stormwitch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0 Amy
Vince's brow furrows at the overall lack of true penetration his blade manages - much less the lance of energy cleaving the way. But despite his swift approach, his recourse comes fluidically enough. The blade is drawn upright, vertical before his face. The tendrils surge towards him.. and are largely cut by a sudden, very real wind force emanating from the blade. The peripheral of the tendrils still buffet Vince, causing him to grit his teeth while he endures it, but it's managable.
Following this, he whirls around to face Amy again. Without a word, he moves in towards her and whisks his blade in a smooth outwards circle. As it curves back in, it suddenly draws up sharply to cut from left hip to right shoulder.
COMBATSYS: Vince successfully hits Amy with Medium Strike.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Amy
The mist drifts outward on meeting that solid - if unorthodox - guard, reverting to a more natural elemental state scant inches from the fencer. It even begins to waft away from the site of battle, uncannily pausing to linger as though no wind were present once Amy straightens and turns to face Vince's next charge. His lack of words please her, and she does not speak either. There is scant time for conversation when battle is heated.
Amy's fingers twitch before her as she tenses, keen to avoid further damage for the moment. The blade's arc is predicted and she lances forward, unpredictably choosing to lead with her wounded left flank. This only aids his ability to make contact as planned with the real sting in the assault. Were her garment not equipped with sleeves, it would part in two fluttering waves to fore and back, as a painful red line flashes into being along the cut's path.
The Templar winces visibly, somewhat taken aback by the resulting pain. She controls this emotion, subconsciously urging her body to override an instinct to retreat in order to keep moving toward him, seeking to use the extension of Vince's weapon as an inroad to breach his defences. Believing she has the opening she seeks, her left palm is sent sinuously onward, to distract the youth's body with a soft application before the right hand flows in. All energy is focused upon this second hand, as it is brought in to strike at the spiritual centre.
But this impact is not harsh and stinging. It carries deceptive force, but rather than seeking to sully flesh and bruise bone, on connecting it will carry Vince off his feet and backwards. The element of surprise and the rocky terrain will do the rest.
COMBATSYS: Vince dodges Amy's Medium Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Amy
It might look as though Amy's weaved through his defenses, but she's given a good demonstration of Rose Dansant's finer points: mobility. The young fencer weaves dextrously to the side from her hands, and his right boot places behind the left to spin him briskly around behind her back. He eases back a couple steps from there, setting into his guarded stance again.
She was trying to get handsy with him! Vince will maybe tease her about that later. But for now, he plucks a single rosette from his left hip. The hand darts forward, and the rosette is suddenly in the air, tip angled directly at Amy's torso.
COMBATSYS: Amy fails to slow Sudden Fling from Vince with Thrown Object.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Amy
Handsy, footsy, misty... it's all fair game. If she were furnished with a blade, Amy could doubtless face Vince on his own playing field; albeit with less finesse. And he appears to have her outmatched for the moment as it is, that probing means of entry failing to gain the purchase it seeks. Not committed to the technique by very virtue of her style, the Templar's next liquid motion does not reach completion. Her palm halts in the air and hovers, still and steady.
When a thrown weapon is rapidly revealed as the next source of offense, Amy does not hesitate. As soon as it's path registers, her hand curls around in a speedy arc, grasping fingers seeking to pluck the rosette from the air and send it whipping back toward Vince in the same motion. But he's fast; and she is a mite slower, barely altering the path enough for the blade's tip to be better predicted. It strikes, drawing further blood on burying itself in her gut. Thankfully missing vital organs.
"You're good," she comments briefly, already on the move to restore her opened guard, left hand almost idly splipping the stiletto from it's perch to fall to the ground below. Nothing more is stated, what remains of Amy's focus placed on channelling her considerable energies into the wounded points. They cannot distract her.
"I ought to be, considering what I am!," chirps Vince. His smile faulters a little, however. She has a nice, new puncture wound. It should be plenty evident that he isn't happiest causing such harm to her.. but she seems to have a desire to continue. He'll not disappoint her.
"Ready yourself," Vince suggests. "This will be fast."
Vince's feet shift impeccably, drawing him in an instant closer to Amy within striking distance. And strike Vince does, the tip of the rapier lashing out to pierce high on her torso, around collar level in a quick 'touch'. Darnedest thing about rapiers, though, is the amount of damage they can inflict with little force.
COMBATSYS: Vince successfully hits Amy with Quick Strike.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-----==|=====--\-------\0 Amy
A warrior can only occupy that role if they know the risks, and accept them. Not a single waver of regret or uncertainty can be seen in Amy. At this juncture they appear to be separated by a gulf of talent, but in watching and feeling her opponent she knows this not to be the case. He has undoubted skill, moves with speed and grace, pierces with accompanying force. He suits his style.
The Templar registers Vince's declaration and calmly files it away, watching him with equal patience as he further declares that his next approach will be thunderous. She stood ready anyway, and no further motion comes from her body... however, at this point the mist noticeably thickens, each pondering strand tearing into two strips of equal mass. It is a disconcerting sight, and only the beginning.
No preparation seems enough for the incoming scratch, which not only finds purchase but scrapes through to bone. Only internal conditioning stops Amy from screaming in astonishment- there seemed no way she could be caught offguard /and/ wounded so deeply. Not when warned. No real reasoning can be placed behind her failure, though it is likely far more Vince's success. Brushing logical explanation aside, the woman falls back in a slide, dark hair whipping in the winds and blood spattering freely from her wounds to cake in the dirt. Holding herself in a low crouch for the moment, she watches Vince from several paces away. To meet her gaze is to see her intent.
Intense. Deep. Striking. The very essence of her soul can be seen for an instant as she sucks in a deep breath, then allowing her breathing to steady as a palpable surge of force billows outward from her innermost point. The mist, already doubled in thickness to be truly visible to the naked glimpse, billows wildly, bucking through the space between the two fighters.
COMBATSYS: Amy draws upon the Dragon's Breath.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\0 Amy
Vince simply wasn't lying to her. That's all there was to it. She wanted a demonstration of Rose Dansant, and this is truly what she's getting. A prodigious, artistic style centering on both speed and the ability to neutralize a threat while keeping out of harm's way. He said his strike would be fast, and so it was. Deep, as well, from how he felt the blade sink until it struck bone.
That actually gets a small grimace from Vince as he likewise pulls back. "I.. ah.." He very nearly apologizes for what -must- have been a painful hit.. but she, to his utter amazement, looks well enough. Bleeding, but there are no tears from her. No sniffling, no whimpering, no sign of weakness at all. She's.. a strong one, she is. Stalwart.
Vince's expression steadies and he gives a resolved nod. Following this, he moves in quickly towards her again and hops into the air. His right boot flashes out, aiming to drive the heel against the side of her head as he twists over in the air.
COMBATSYS: Amy blocks Vince's Light Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\1 Amy
A fine demonstration it has been, but the fight is not over; this is what keeps Amy from acknowledging pain, from allowing the searing in her limbs to enter and befuddle her essential thoughts and instincts. It is testament to her own potential as a warrior, no matter how much of that potential has yet to be truly fulfilled. For someone who claims to have been such a lousy human being in younger life, she is shaping into something remarkable... but so is her opponent.
"Don't apologise," She calls to him, soft beneath a layer of focus and yet clear enough over the silent backdrop. He nods, and she rises gently to her feet, an arm lifting to bear a strong forearm before her. For a woman of no great size she is well sinewed, and Vince's airborne assault is met with solid resistance. A shockwave runs down the blocking limb, but Amy is already turning to face the fencer as he lands, windmilling her arms to prepare for what follows.
That gathered mist suddenly /explodes/ into life with the motion, the Dragon's Breath obeying it's mistress with staggering vigour. It almost seems sentient. In this one moment it becomes thick enough to confuse the human eye, buffeting about in such a way to conceal a rapid movement from the lady knight. Only the most analytical eye would be able to formulate Amy's exact location, but one thing is clear.
She could be in any of several places.
That bizarre chi coalesces in a flash, surging into formations as if wrenched by half a dozen collapsing stars. The billowing stuff does not disappear, however, instead further fooling gaze and brain as six nearly identical wraithlike figures launch themselves toward the heir to Rose Dansant. Each resembles Amy, each throws out an arm to bear a crushing palm thrust upon her opponent, and with so little to discern one from the other she could be anywhere.
Choose wisely.
COMBATSYS: Vince parries Amy's Preserving the Myth!
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/---====|-------\-------\0 Amy
The fog intensifies as Vince lands, and he's immediately lifting his guard. But.. what exactly can he hope to ward off? The fog itself?
Of course.
Vince's icy blue eyes narrow, and his blade comes to life with a mass of swirling silvery wind sheathing its length. As the tendrils encroach towards him, the blade is swung - and the tendril is lopped apart. Chi begets chi. Tendril after tendril does the gallant swashbuckler fend away, hacking and cutting them in truly heroic manner, complete with 'enchanted' sword.
When it seems that the arms of fog have ceased their onslaught, a series of Amy images emerge, surrounding him. Vince's wind-aligned sword is drawn back slowly. The Amy's seem to prepare an attack, and Vince is well aware that he has no way of telling which one of the true one. As they dash in to deliver their attack(s), Vince upturns his blade.
"YAAHHH!"
Into the earth the rapier dives. In that moment, the wind energy sweeps out in a torrential gust then surges into the sky, cascading over each of the figures to dissipate the false images and hopefully wildly disorient the real thing.
Vince's blade is pulled from the ground, and the aura returns to the steel. Icy blues focus on Amy, and he closes in quickly to her. The blade is drawn across his chest, then swept out in a wide arc aiming to slice against her torso - while at the same time, the aura discharges into a broad, flat crescent of gray wind energy to slice yet deeper independent of the sword itself.
COMBATSYS: Vince successfully hits Amy with Sweeping Breeze EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Vince 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Amy
While the elements do little to affect the flow of chi, Vince's assumption is a canny one. Meeting it upon it's own terms proves more than adequate now, as it so often can when precision and careful timing are used.
Were Amy not making her physical approach directly behind one of the ghostly apparitions she would be capable of appraising the manner in which her deceptive attack is handled. The basic idea is clear, but as she desperately lands in a roll, barely evading the fine blade as it sends her cover screaming into wispy obscurity, she is too occupied with her own actions to marvel at the youth's apparent skill.
Landing at the innermost outskirts of the torrential battle between similar yet conflicting energies, the Templar flings herself off the ground with a quick application of her palms. Flipping once through the air, her legs finally find the ground a moment later. She is breathing heavily, eyes dull with disbelief and the sheer effort of following what has just occurred. Before she can gather all she needs, it is over, and Vince comes roaring through the haze like an avenging demon.
"Huh!" It's the barest gasp as she staggers back, guard shattered through surprise. The slash that follows cuts deep across her midriff, sending her spinning backward. At least she has paid enough attention to expect /that/ much, and a cloud of dust rises about firmly set footwork as she launches herself in an instant back toward her opponent. Blood rains behind her, and when her mouth opens to form a sharp kiai a fleck of red appears on her parted lips. She can only hope it will be enough to distract Vince while her body pistons forward, a hefty double palm thrust carrying the weight of her shock and pain.
COMBATSYS: Amy successfully hits Vince with Fierce Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Vince 1/-------/=======|===----\-------\0 Amy
Again, Vince is taken aback by the apparent damage he's causing the femme. It really isn't something he's ever going to get accustomed to - not against females whom he doesn't sincerely consider a foe, anyway. But Vince bites back an apology, seeing as she lunges back in - and this time, to effect. The palms land against chest, getting a sound, "UNF!," from Vince and pushing him back several steps.
The blade whips back into place and his guard is recovered, however. After a second's consideration at their small distance, a smirk touches to Vince's lips and he lifts his left hand into the air.
A piercing avian cry rings out. A small break appears in the clouds above, permitting a single shaft of light to penetrate to the earth below - and within that, an image emerges. Wings come into view rapidly, and soon enough, the form of a smoky gray falcon with opaque onyx eyes comes fully into view, swooping low. The creature's legs pull forth, talons coming to bear on a crash-course with Amy's head.
COMBATSYS: Amy slows Spirit Falcon from Vince with Raven's Wing.
Glancing Hit
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Vince 1/------=/=======|====---\-------\0 Amy
Impact is met without further show of amazement from Amy. The feel of tensed hands impacting unprepared flesh is only an encouragement, and she regains her composure on recovering. Her feet slide apart, gripping the mountainside with only slightly less confident grip than they began this match with. Whatever fuels the Templar, her paled features are no less set in calm readiness for all the blood she has lost. And continues to lose.
Perhaps it is due to her doubtless weakening frame that she does not give immediate pursuit, but all that matters is that she does not. Vince's hand is thrown heavenward, and Amy's dark, intent gaze follows. There is no answering smirk, but the reaction speaks a thousand expressions. The falcon of energetic smoke is met by the woman down below, as she springs into the air, a tight vertical leap that swiftly unfolds into a thunderous snap kick. All the mist blown into disarray by Vince returns in force, flooding back toward Amy in a spiralling vortex...
Only to form into a vast, broad expanse of chi. It does not have far to travel by the time it appears, meeting the opposing technique not three feet away. The battle is brief, both grey forms fighting for supremacy before the bloodied woman's explodes into a thousand vague motes. She is knocked away by the backdraught to land in a controlled three-point crouch, chest rising and falling rapidly as she lifts her head to regard Vince with what might well be respect. She is hard to read... but how could it not be there?
The falcon is tenacious as all Hell, not unlike a trained avian of flesh and blood. But once Amy has been struck sufficiently by the ensuing eruption of chi, the falcon curves back up into the air to disappear amidst the sky. A second avian cry is all that signals its full departure.
Satisfied, Vince inclines his head to even his cool gaze on the woman. His rapier is drawn to his chest.. then slashed diagonally downwards. The weapon is then slashed upwards. Then to the side. Then down. And the slashes continue in no determinable order, picking up speed rapidly. With only a few slashes more, the young swordsman's arm has disappeared completely from vision, cutting the air haplessly more times than any mere mortal could ever dream of counting.
A bit pointless, though, considering the distance.
Only it isn't. Just a couple seconds after the slashing began, a sudden gray streak tears against whatever solid object (such as Amy) is before him. The very air itself appears to be ripping and shredding itself, along with whatever is against these metaphysical slashes at the time. These cuts come like a hurricane of invisible razor blades.
COMBATSYS: Amy endures Vince's Phantom Laceration.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //// ]
Vince 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Amy
Tenacity runs strong through the mountainous terrain, all but visibly emanating off Amy as she meets Vince's cool gaze with frozen fire of her own. She does not focus on the blade, maintaining eye contact throughout the seeming kata. This is not complacency, nor outright stupidity. But neither is it that she believes she can see read his intent more easily by remaining still and focused upon those twin sapphires. Something big is coming; she can feel it, sense the ripples. For all his flamboyant dress and manner, the fencer has proven himself more than worthy in her eyes - not a man to waste time on posturing during a fight, important or no.
The slashing abates. With this, Amy is instantly upon her feet, shockwaves running beneath her as she /slams/ her feet down solidly, setting all her energy into maintaining a firm stance. Wordless, fierce, and proud, she circles her hands before her, bringing them around tensed so hard that they shake. It is visible for the scantest of scant moments before the hurricane is upon her. Blood sears through the peaceful air, pattering into the remaining tendrils of mist not dissipated already by her gradual loss of control. Red specks mark the earth, soaking the knight-errant in the few places left thus far untouched.
But through it all, she stands, boldly, defiantly. There is nothing to deft - no point to be made save her own competence - but she stands regardless. The only notable change when the storm abates, is in her eyes. They have lost the cold, calculating edge, and now blaze strong and bright with not only that inner soulfire but with tears. For the first time, pain has been registered in more than a gasp and lifted brows. It does not stop her.
"SYAAAAAAA!!" Suddenly, violently, her passion explodes in a cry far beyond the only momentary concession to noise that Amy has made. Her entire body quakes with effort, and then... she stands before Vince, her face inches from his. Blood, sweat and dirt are all too apparent. But moreso, far more, is her last vestige of pure spirit. It may be so shocking that he fails to notice the thunderous palm hammering in toward his gut, bearing a tiny vortex of potent chi. It also may not.
Either way, it will be her last stand today.
COMBATSYS: Amy can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Vince 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Vince blocks Amy's Hound of Avalon.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Vince 0/-------/-----==|
Whoomph.
At the slightest /hint/ of contact, the last desperate whirl of mist gathered at the centre of Amy's hand roars like a beast unleashed. With a forceful twist from the wrist, the Templar drives her technique home against whatever purchase can be found. The aim may be off, it may be deflected, but the final intent is to attack not just the physical form- but everything that holds her opponent together. It does not matter if she respects Vince; does not matter if he wins. In this instance, it may be respect in itself that she throws so much into her extended arm, pumping physical and spiritual strength into a debilitating black hole forged from that curious mist chi.
It lasts several moments, before further activity is cut off with a pained gasp. Her vision blurring into a heathaze, the Templar sinks to her knees, left hand raising to cradle the right with some care. The limb used to strike is shaking almost uncontrollably, bucking and writhing in her tentative grasp.
COMBATSYS: Vince has ended the fight here.
The sudden, blatant strike - considering the massive abuse he forced upon her just a moment ago - comes as a surprise, to say the least. The palm connects, and as her energy is discharged in that outrageously forceful chi culmination, Vince lets out a sharp cry of pain. He, however, immediately kicks into the defense and throws himself back to the ground away from Amy and whatever further torture she intends, cutting it notably short from what it very well could have done from him.
Skidding along his cape for a feet's length, Vince kips backwards to land on his boots again, eyes narrowed on her.
And finally, it looks like she won't be able to continue. ..Did he go overboard? Did she?
"Amy..?," he asks tentatively.
None have observed this test of bodies and wills save the combatants themselves... and the llama a short distance away, currently paying absolutely no heed as it wanders about searching for small roots and weeds among the rocks. With the force of Vince and Amy's energies abating, only the sound of his voice and her panting breaths can be heard over the continual gust of winds.
No surprise that he was first to recover and speak- if this were taking place on a busy street or a tournament stage, doubtless some medical help would already have been despatched to tend to the gaping wounds evident on the young woman. She resembles nothing more than the victim of a horrific car wreck, all torn clothing and congealing bloodstains. But she seems to have escaped the effects of shock, as a few heartbeats after Vince's careful query reaches her, dead eyes lift from their consideration of the void to meet his - doubtless far more alive. This small gesture seems to re-ignite the spark of life in Amy, and she manages the strained ghost of a smile as she clenches her shaking hand to a fist - ceasing the shaking after one or two further, minor convulsions.
"Still here," she confirms softly, with a tone as tensely controlled as the expression on her lips. Her eyes slide shut for a moment, and she breathes in, long and shallow. When she next moves, it's with greater resolve. Seeming to have regained, or at least maintained, control of her body, she shifts on the clitter-strewn ground, crossing her legs beneath her and leaning forward, arms folding in her lap and back ably supported. "I told you not to worry... 'To not give your all is to learn nothing.' Perhaps I tried a little too hard, but either way," she breathes a sigh, restoring a rather more genuine smile, warmth reaching her eyes, "Well played. You did a fair number on me. Rose Dansant, was it?"
"H-here," says Vince, moving quickly to Amy in the hopes of assisting her. She reaches her destination first, however, and leaves him standing before her. "I'll fetch you some bandages." Without a moment's hesitation, he turns to rush back to his backpack and begins rifling through it.
"Oui, Rose Dansant. The style my family is famous for. Like true artists, it was fashioned in the early age of the rapier by my ancestor, when the sword was but a hapless length of metal."
In truth, the wounds Amy has suffered are no worse than she would take from any beating - merely different, more stinging and painful. More prone to infection. Scars are possible but long-term damage is less likely than with strong blunt impacts or pressure-point strikes. Though pale and drawn from bloodloss, the Templar does not appear too concerned- even accounting for the inevitably intoxicating rush of adrenaline that accompanies such injuries. The offer of help is, however, accepted with a grateful nod of the head. She is not too proud, stubborn or foolish to refuse him.
"Swords are always a hapless length of metal," she replies to Vince after a moment's pause, "No matter how well forged, from whatever materials, it's the warrior's grip that truly defines any weapon. I can appreciate your style, though. Most martial arts hold that a weapon is a tool - a means for achieving something that otherwise might require further training, diverting from the primary focus. There's eastern warriors who believe in the concept of swords and souls, but in the western world especially we rarely see beyond the blunt purpose behind the object."
"The way you move, the way you fight, it suggests a more perfect synergy. Something greater than even the best fencers usually aspire to. It's as if you and the blade are one." By this point Amy's tone has grown distant once more with thought, though as she speaks she has also begun to check some of her gashes and gouges, dirty fingertips tracing the edges of those more easily reached, leaving streaks in the drying blood. It's not macabre - it serves a purpose, ascertaining which need initial treatment and which can wait until she has found shelter and encampment from which to recover.
Still, she turns her attention back to Vince, eager to hear what he has to say in response. She is merely postulating, after all; to truly understand one must hear from those who have already grasped full understanding.
"The LaRose rapier and the LaRose destiny are intertwined and inseparable - it's a destiny the wielder and the weapon share alike." Vince lifts a roll of bandages from his backpack and raises to his feet. The weapon, still in his right hand, is slashed through the air to scatter any remaining blood droplets before it returns to its sheath.
As he approaches Amy, he begins unraveling the bandages. "The rapier is as much a part of me as my arm, for striking or reaching out in aid. It's as much a part of me as my mind, as in the actions of my rapier, one may find the extension of my studies and the discipline in how I carry out my life. In the rapier, one will also find my soul. The actions of the rapier move in perfect harmony with my honor, the moral compass which dictates my decisions."
He kneels down in front of her and tilts his head slightly, icy blues affixing to her darker blues. "My life is wrapped and bound in the rapier - we are one."
That hangs in the silent air for a couple seconds before his gaze finally lowers to her wounds. "Now.. where to begin.."
There's really not a great deal Amy can add to the explanation - it confirms her assumptions, and echoes precisely what she has seen and felt during the recent flood of activity. It would have been all too easy to brand Vince, and any of a dozen names might have served the purpose. Beneath any outward display though, far beyond the social mannerisms and outlandish mode of dress... he is a warrior. The term 'fighter' means nothing; conceding to the populist form of sport combat that has swept the globe. One who fights is not necessarily anything more, without point or purpose behind the battle.
To truly embody a warrior's spirit is to embody purpose in every movement. It is something Amy herself has been concerned with of late, ascertaining precisely how she sees herself in this archetype. And where it will place her in the present, and in the future. For now, Vince has given her ample reason to keep pushing herself.
For all that she thinks and feels, she says nothing more on the subject, simply inclining her head in a respectful gesture as he finishes explaining. She could tell him that it shows, that he is achieving the goal in his art form, that he should keep on doing so. But in a way, she has already told him that; and so much more. To give her all and still be here, still conscious? It has come about for that reason. Respect, honour, the acknowledgement that an opponent's integrity and skill have been noted.
And then, there is the easily forgotten matter of her injuries... she laughs, bringing herself back to the moment of plain reality, practical living, with a subsequent cough as her body aches from the sudden effort. "Ugh," she shakes her head then reaches to stay Vince's hand, "You don't need to begin at all; it's enough that you made any move to help. Just pass me what I need, and I can handle it. If I seem hardheaded, it's.." again her head shakes, sending a few strands of dirty, damaged hair across one eye. Instantly she blows upward, restoring her vision. It's an oddly girly gesture, given her manner. "It's because I know I make my journey alone. I asked you to attack me - that I have your care and respect is more than enough, without effort on your part. Thank you, though."
"If you insist..," Vince says quietly. "I'm no gifted physician, I admit." He obediently passes the bandaging over to her with a softer smile. "The rosette I threw at you - keep it. Who knows if you'll encounter me again, after all. Besides, I like giving out the unique mementos." He eases back a little from her to give her ample room to work. "If it doesn't seem a bit too gory for your tastes, I mean."
Amy returns Vince's smile as she accepts the article. If one can judge by movement alone, she appears to be reasonably apt at repairing bodily harm. Her hands, though most likely numb or sore, move with a deft, assured grace as she moves to clean and bind the first of many wounds that will require close attention. She continues as Vince speaks, wasting no time.
The rosette...? She glances toward the discarded short blade, only for the first time making proper note of it's craftsmanship. It flew straight and true, and though the harm it did her was light compared to that of the Frenchman's rapier, the gift is taken for what it is. The donation of a small piece of his art. She can overlook that he references having given others; a gift's relevance is not lessened because the giver is prone to such gestures. "I'm a lady in at least one sense, but I'm hardly squeamish," she replies lightly to his amendment, lips quirking into a lopsided grin which quickly fades to a more respectful expression, "Thank you, Vince LaRose."
"Oh, and," she pauses to pull tight the first bandage, a murmur of pain squeaking past her lips as it covers the tender cut, "We will meet again. You don't honestly think I'd let you get away without a rematch? You've tested me sorely, and shown me just how great your style can be in the right hands. Someday I need to return that favour."
"I'm sure you will, m'lady," Vince replies with something of a tentative grin. Her bandaging herself is unpleasant for him, for some reason or another. He raises to his full height and and turns back to his backpack. "I hope we meet again soon. But for now, the wind is calling me. I've stayed here long enough."
Vince begins moving, fetching the backpack and slinging it over his right shoulder. He pauses to glance back over the left to spot her. "I wish you well."
"And to you. May the winds never falter."
Amy will watch Vince as he leaves, not with longing or particularly deep ponderance... but as one watches the sunset, the passing of another day. The creation of another memory. A lesson learned. A quiet and dignified farewell to what has proven another worthwhile chapter. For all her initial chill reception, she is glad to have met the young duellist - though she hopes he will come to find his own purpose, around and within the breezes which carry him.
When the LaRose heir has passed, the Templar commits fully to patching herself up. It will be night soon and she wishes to gain blessing from the temple's stewards, along with a place to sleep for the duration of her stay here. Finding an affirmation of point and purpose is one thing... but she still has a mission here.
Whether she is already one step closer to discovering what her master seeks...
That is an answer for another day.
Log created on 15:28:06 09/02/2008 by Amy, and last modified on 19:23:55 09/07/2008.