An Apprentice for Sama'el

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

He couldn't help it; he laughed. It wasn't at her, but rather with her. Well, she wasn't laughing, but there wasn't a hint of malice or judgment in it. That just wasn't his way. Sama'el loved just about everyone, the most common exceptions being people who hurt the ones he loved. Or looked at them funny. "We both have to have faith that the Sayaph is correct in his judgment, and I have not known his wisdom to be faulty. But you are right. I am young and I have not been in the Watch long. But in his infinite wisdom, he decided we should work together. I do not stand in the way of you and the Watch. I am the one showing you the ford in the river, the path through the endless grass. "I want you to join the Watch as a full member. I know, at least, what they want out of you. So let us see what your skills are, the better to focus on what needs what. Draw a weapon."

[Mealla Stormsong]

OOC NotePurchased scimitar for 15gm; see Ledger. Her eyes widened fractionally at his laugh – the only real indication that she was rather taken aback by it. She certainly had not expected it; had instead thought that he would be offended by her attempt at a joke (though that was partly why she had done it). But whatever the case, she was not used to hearing people laugh. It was... different –nice-, though her good feelings faded slightly at the realisation that he might not be laughing with her, but rather at her. Well, he could shove it where the sun didn’t shine, if that was the case, and she would be more than happy to tell him that. Her chin lifted fractionally; the proud, distant Mealla back. “How long have you known him?" she asked. "The Sayaph? Not long, I think? Because perhaps if you were to know him for longer, you would learn that his judgement might not always be so wise.” She shrugged her shoulders, her gaze flicking from him as she turned to see if Andraste was all right. The horse was grazing, apparently unaffected by her earlier attempts at acrobatics. If only the same could be said of her as she put some more weight on her leg, wincing slightly. Pushing the pain aside, she did as he commanded and drew her scimitar, her attention moving back to him. “I’m rather looking forward to getting you on your back.” Another flash of a smile.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

He shrugged the first challenge off as he had much of her vitriol, much as a duck shrugged rain from its waterproof feathers. Sama'el wasn't the sort to let things bother him, not the minor things, anyway. He had greater sorrows to mourn. For certain, he had only known the Sayaph as long as he had been with the Watch, and there had been another Sayaph when he was a boy, before his return from slavery and the great, wide beyond. But he had faith in the judgment of the elders, the Ankals, and he would follow the Sayaph's orders unless there was some glaring error in judgment. But he did hope they were paired for more than that she too wielded a scimitar. He tried not to wince at her, though. She wasn't holding it right, nor standing properly. She held it somewhere between how one should hold a bow, and how many untrained children imagined a sword should be held. Unless she was hiding great skill behind her apparent lack, it would not even be fair to spar with her. And then... oh. He blushed. He couldn't help it, and then he felt a pang of guilt. Issima was only just gone and here he was flirting with a pretty girl. Well, she had started it. Or had she? Mealla didn't even seem to like him. "Ah... you'll want to relax your grip a bit..." Wait, oops. "Um." Normally he would have put his hands on her hands, molded them into something proper, but now everything seemed to have more than one meaning, and he wasn't sure if that was only in his head.

[Mealla Stormsong]

Her father had always taught her to question everything. It was part of being a Drykas, he’d said, and, even if it wasn’t, she still had to question the wisdom of having a teacher who was barely older than her. It didn’t matter that he was attractive – looks would, after all, get him nowhere. They wouldn’t protect him. They wouldn’t keep him safe. And, despite the skills she had seen earlier with him on the horse, she still did not trust him, still thought he had to prove himself, because riding was not fighting. A man could be a great rider, and yet he could not fight. She’d always had to see to believe, and now was no different. He had to show himself to her completely before she could even think about giving herself over to him fully. She loosened her grip on her scimitar, biting back on a retort that she was holding it just fine, thank you very much, and looked up, ready to ask him whether he approved. She saw his blush, and her eyebrows rose, and she stared, uncomprehending, anger and annoyance threatening. Was he laughing at her again? Why? What was wrong with him? She knew how to hold a sword! She knew how to fight! “’Um...’?” she repeated finally, lowering her weapon, her voice taking on a suspicious note as she took a step closer to him, closing the gap. “Why do you blush? Am I really so embarrassing? Am I really so bad that you cannot look?” She brushed the hair from her face again, her eyes glaring, all traces of her earlier humour gone. “Or are you really so desperate for me to put you on your back? But, show me, then, if I am so terrible. Show me how to hold it. I don’t bite. You are the teacher, after all, and I don’t think students are supposed to bite the teacher, are they?” She pushed aside any and all thoughts on how well the blush suited him. She was here to learn, here to use him to get what he wanted; she wasn’t here to look at him in such a way. No matter how much she wanted to.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

He shook his head, trying to focus. Instead he showed her his own grip upon the scimitar, two-handed and one-handed. "It's a versatile weapon in that," he explained. "I suppose we should spar, or go through forms." Before she could respond to that, he slapped her scimitar aside with the flat of his own. He wondered if she would react in anger or collect herself and request to go through forms. A temper could be a dangerous thing in the wilds of Cyphrus, moreso for him, perhaps, than for others. If he got angry, he might call Fire. If it was the wrong season and it got out of his control, wildfires could ravage wide swathes of land.

[Mealla Stormsong]

She brought her scimitar back, mimicking the way he held his own, and drew in a breath, fighting the anger that had flared the moment he had struck. It was not anger at him, but rather at herself - for not having been aware, and for not having reacted fast enough. If that had been a predator, then she’d been dead. Her eyes narrowed, focused, as she pressed her lips into a thin line, concentrating. She wanted so badly to push her hair behind her ears once again – a nervous habit – but resisted, never once glancing away from him as she solidified her stance. A fighter's stance - ready to move, to react, in an instant. She hoped that she had got that right, at least. “Is that it?” she asked, the anger leaking into her voice, even as the breezes whispered to her, attempting to soothe her. “Is that you sparring? Go on. Hit me. Strike me. I’m not going cry. I’m not going to run. Or are you too scared? Go on. Do something.”

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"Close," he admitted, a hard eye turned on her stance. He was of the school of thought that a weaponsmaster ought be as hard as stone, else his students would be too soft to survive and their deaths would be on his hands for not better preparing them. And so he would be a perfectionist. He moved in, tapped her ankle with his toe. "Move this a bit, yes. Elbow here. Relax your neck." Then he stepped back, gave her a grudging nod. "This is a good stance for your body to remember, but remember there is no such thing as perfection in a stance. You will always be readjusting some part of your body, looking for balance... There is always movement. True stillness is death." As he spoke, he began to move, his blade held low in a relaxed grip. But his feet moved slowly, carefully feeling out the terrain so he could keep his almond-shaped eyes on her. When he moved, it was like a leaf in the breeze, subject to Zulrav's will rather than his own. His scimitar moved up and down at times, but stayed relatively low. He looked ready to attack or defend at an instant's notice. With a sword in hand and his eyes on her, he looked much older, or ageless, perhaps. With time and discipline, one became a weapon.

[Mealla Stormsong]

She did as he instructed, relaxing her neck, and moving her ankle and elbow just so, though her expression hardened somewhat at the criticism. She’d never been good at being corrected; at being told that she wasn’t doing something completely right. Oh, she could question, she could ask, and she could challenge, but the gods forbid anyone do the same to her. She didn’t like to fail. Perhaps it was the perfectionist in her - the person always seeking for approval. “I’m not a child,” she finally snapped, moving back to a normal standing position, and letting her scimitar fall by her side as she ignored his display. Her frustration, her anger, was finally getting the better of her. “So please do not treat me as one. I do know some things, like how to hold myself, for a start.” The breeze picked up as she spoke, and as she unconsciously reached out to it, seeking its reassurance. “I am not a complete novice, because I wouldn’t be here if was. I would be out on that grass. Dead. So don’t treat me like one. Please.” She turned then, turning her back to him, and walked away, heading towards the horses and flicking her hair over her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, her whole body tense. She had messed up again, hadn’t she? She was making a complete fool of herself, wasn’t she, if she apparently couldn’t even do a simple stance? Her father had taught her the basics as a child, but apparently that hadn’t been correct. She threw down the scimitar, and continued walking.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

He stared after her, agog. One didn't speak to their master that way. An apprentice ought be eager to learn, and correction was a part of it. She had proven that she didn't know what she was doing with a scimitar, and worse even than disrespecting him, she had disrespected her sword. He sheathed his, then went to pick up hers, murmuring a prayer to Uphis of the Sharp Blades that he might not give her dull blades and brittle blades in the future when she needed strength and sharpness to survive. "A Watchman is humble in the face of greater skill," he called after her. "A Watchman does not flee from a teacher." He was trying to help her. He could not understand why she was being so strange.

[Mealla Stormsong]

“And a teacher respects his pupil and does not throw his ‘greater skill’ in her face,” she said, spinning to face him, her eyes flashing in anger. “You treat me as if I’ve never held a sword o-or... or stood as a warrior. I am of the Diamond Clan – a fighter – and yet to you I seem no more than a babe who has never before held arms.” Her pride had been pricked, she knew, and she was reacting to it, giving in to her feelings; a spark ignited. She had not wanted to be an apprentice, but rather a full blown member of the Watch, and she was not used to taking instruction, or to being anything other than the best. She wasn’t a complete idiot, and yet he had managed to make her feel like one in a matter of moments, and Mealla was not going to tolerate that. Never. She took a step forward, lifting her chin, her anger still raging. “A teacher should also be humble, whatever his skill. He too should be willing to learn – to find what works with his pupil.” And constant badgering did not work with this pupil. She needed to be taught things - to be told to make changes - in small increments, so that her pride was not wounded. She was of the Diamond Clan, for the love of the gods. He needed to learn just as much as she.