1963-11-22 - Mars v. Venus
Summary: Lady Sif's students take a crack at each other.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
rogue alexander 


It's cold. Snow has started to fall, but that doesn't seem to deter Alexander from his routine. His tasks, having been assigned by Sif, for the morning complete, he's out in the back lot of the Bellator house, wearing just enough to keep from freezing. Light pants, and even a shirt this time. And shoes. Definitely shoes. Not even Godlings want frozen toes. He's focused on his exercise, his eyes closed as he works slowly and carefully through the motions of the tan tui the Goddess of War has been insistent he master. The movements aren't particularly complex, but memorization of the routine isn't the challenge; Sif is demanding perfection of form, and mastery of concentration. It's a discipline exercise, more than a physical one, which is why he's been sent here in the first place. Alex had committed the dimensions and obstacles of his surroundings to his memory, and so even with his eyes closed he knows where he is in in relation to the rest of the yard. What he hasn't counted on is another arrival, who might throw an unexpected variable into the mix.

*

Who is not a godling, or remotely divine? The instrument of divine justice, as one might come to think of her, embedded in the Asgardian court where such dangerous things belong. Out of the hands of mortals, a weapon in the form of a redhead wearing strawflowers in her intricately braided hair and a pretty leather outfit that would constitute a catsuit under different circumstances. This constitutes Asgardian battle attire assigned to someone who, by a pair of wooden swords in hand, is out to practice in the back of the ranch. How she got there matters a little bit less than the fact she is, and neither Frick or Frack respond negatively. Nor are there immortal goats bellowing, Helge screaming as she runs out of the kitchen, or in fact any sign Scarlett should not be here. As to anyone else, that proves another matter entirely, especially for someone so clearly engaged in the very same thing she is supposed to be doing. A different style, granted, but a distinctive one. Sif is collecting students. It's one way to pass the time when the goddess of war and hunting is, apparently, rooted enough to need diversions. The faint hint of a smile touches the girl's lips, but she does not quite interrupt the orbits even her intermediate gaze can measure would be necessary for practicing that particular art. Skimming backward on light feet in leather boots, she gives little auditory hint of being there, searching for a spot out of the way. Mind you, who knows how far that really needs to be.

*

"Hello," Alex says simply as he hears the soft sound of Scarlett in the area. He doesn't know her, or who she is, or even where she is just yet, as his eyes don't open. The youth finishes the set of motions he had begun, each one careful and measured, slow and deliberate. If Sif could see him now, she might even be impressed in his control. But so much of this was old hat to the young Olympian, she might not be surprised to find him regaining the skills he had let slip since his training as a boy. He makes no effort to avoid the newcomer, expecting that she would have the wherewithal to stay out of his path. And since she does, he completes the tan tui in a final mock-kick, and settles into the last stance of the routine, holding there for a moment, before opening his eyes, already facing the young woman. His head cocks to the side slightly as he regards her. "You don't look like a handmaiden."

*

Let Sif be the deciding factor whether Scarlett meets any kind of expectations. They have not been hinted at, either way. She holds one of the swords in hand, the other slid into the loop on her belt. True to form, neither are more than wood, albeit a polished wood capable of delivering a rather sharp smack and certainly proof of damage if anyone were to be thoroughly socked and clocked by the thing. All the handsome weaponry in the world will not make up for a lack of manners or ability, though. She folds forward in a curt bow, hands to her sides, signaling a greeting at least as much as her voice does. "Good afternoon." Politeness then rules the world, and be glad for it, and that mingles with a faint smile that goes lopsided and a cool, "No. No handmaiden; alas. Another student, as you would be." Her gaze flickers azure, calm as the sea, measuring and calculating the way Alexander moves and acts, learning even from afar.

*

Alexander isn't quite so formal, though there's a nagging part of him that tells him he ought to be. He smiles, and it's just this side of goofy. With Sif away for the moment, his attitude and demeanor are naturally more relaxed. He can practice in his own way, in his own time, without the pressure of having to impress. Or so he thinks, at least. "I didn't know the Lady Sif had taken other students," he says curiously. He hadn't met any others, at least, but nor is Sif particularly generous with the details of her affairs. Nor should she be. "I am Alexander. Son of Ares son of Zeus," he offers as an introduction, for now leaving off the whole 'God of War' bit. Because humility, you see.

*

The uneven arc of her lips settles back, and she curls her fingers firmly around the hilt of the practice sword. The point remains down, flush to her side, where a step forward will not end up smacking her shin and earning a bruise that would definitely show in Scarlett's favoured attire: minidresses. His relaxed stance does broadcast a need to be mildly less formal, and she holds out her hand in something of a wave. "I am a student of too many things to belong to one," she acknowledges easily enough, pulling back her hand to her brow. Her gauge for lies is fairly good, something that comes from reading body language and simply observing. "One of the Olympians. I met your… uncle…" A careful consideration is required, a brief reference of the tangled bloodlines of the thirteen Olympians, and settling on an answer. Her lilting voice gives her a quality for the English or South, but too rarefied to be twangy. "They were memorable occasions, Alexander, son of Ares, son of Zeus Pater. I am called Scarlett." Ooh, fancy names and… just that. Not everyone can be divine.

*

Alex has a lot of uncles, but since she probably doesn't get up to Olympus much, the list is easy enough to filter. He hasn't even met Hercules himself, but the way his father talks about him, there isn't a lot of love lost there. "I haven't," he says simply. Hercules was not present when Alex was on Olympus those many years ago. "You'll have to tell me the story, some time," meaning not now. He gives a smile, and isn't too shy about looking the woman over. Could be he's gauging her readiness for a fight (she's carrying wooden swords, after all), or it could be as simple as she's outside in the cold in a mini-skirt, and Alex is a nineteen year old male. Take it as you will. "You have two swords there, Miss Scarlett," Alex says after a moment, motioning to both the one in her hand, and the one at her waist. "Did you intend to use them both yourself?" He offers a bit of a joking grin, but there's a chance it could be taken as mocking, depending on her state of mind.

*

Not as though Apollo hangs around going 'Heya, ladies' to flame-tressed girls of a particular breeding, or Hermes sits in on classes at Columbia. He should; there are a number of interesting souls there including the immortal variety. It's neither here nor there. She casts a slight smile, anyways. "I am sure storytelling is welcome in Lady Sif's house. It would be an excellent end to a long day." The way she carries herself, upright and unconsciously mindful of every gesture, is something of an exercise in mechanical control. No gestures are too excessive. She apparently prefers the smaller gesture, the contained measure. Her leggings barely creak, altogether. "Lady Scarlett if you must, or Scarlett will do. I am not one to stand on formality if I must not, in such company." Especially as he is bona fide deity material, if he's not lying about it. She gives him a faint raise of her eyebrows. "I can fight with both of them. I am told it's not sporting to punch your opponent in the face should you become disarmed, though the tactic seems perfectly legal. Thus a second sword. Do you think you can do well with one?" A draw leaves the blunt tip planted in the ground, digging a groove. He can take it if he wants. Or he can try.

*

"No need to be formal with me, Lady Scarlett," Alex says, using the formal title anyway. "Alexander, or Alex, if you want to economize your syllables," he says with a smirk. "I'm of the opinion that all is fair in battle. Sporting a concept for games and play, not for life and death. You fight to win, not to give your opponent the chance to beat you. If there is an advantage, you take it. If you lack a weapon, you use the ones you were born with," he says, giving another smirk, and a bit of a shrug. Alex' eyes fall to the sword, planted in the ground, and then back up to the woman. A challenge, then. His smirk turns into a grin, and faster than any human should be able to be move, he darts forward, intending to take the wooden weapon from right in front of her.

*

"Truly," agrees the bohemian, gazing down the length of the blade. She withdraws a few steps, the philosophy of martial convictions something presumably agreed with. "Or you take one." It sounds easier than it really is. Truly, it means reaching out with her right there, a lithe creature toned by years of yoga and not exactly tall or buff in ways that Asgardians tend to be. She does drop back into a bit of a more comfortable stance, the ball of her back foot supporting her weight more than anything else. And truly, Alexander is a zephyr, an impressive whisper of the great gale that is his father, and no less impressive. She might not have an advantage there.

But telegraphing his intentions by throwing himself into action will surely cause some reaction. Maybe he snatches it. Probably, possibly so, but she steps forward, and sends a driving blow straight into the middle of his chest, palm open, heel of her hand using a fraction of her strength. The stroke is smooth enough, anyways, but that fraction would be more than sufficient to lift up and throw even a seasoned warrior — if they were mortal. Now, an Olympian, that's another matter entirely. On the other hand, she can punch like a bloody mountain, though she stares oddly at her hand and up at the air, azure gaze clouded and brow lined. "That did not work correctly. Odd. Technique?"

*

Alex is quick, nimble, and precise in his movements. Even with his intentions telegraphed as they are, he snatches the sword from the ground before Scarlett, immediately moving to dodge whatever attack might come. But while quick enough to gain the weapon, his mortal form has limits. The blow strikes him as intended, despite his move to deflect it; fast, but not fast enough. And Olympian he might be, but his mortal shell lacks many of their more formidable attributes. Alex is stronger than average for his size, but by no means superhumanly so, and he weighs exactly what he would appear to. Thankfully, he's blessed with some degree of durability, and accelerated healing, so the blow, strong as it is /does/ in fact lift him into the air, sailing more than a few feet aloft. But the youth recovers, managing a mostly-graceful landing, rolling into an attack stance, sword at the ready. "Ouch," he says simply, holding his place for a moment. "You're strong than you look. I love unexpected surprises," he says, allowing a grin to creep to his lips again. There's going to be a bruise there, but he wasn't expecting to to go a day without a new one of those. Not here. Brandishing the wooden sword with expert form, he closes the distance again, this time keeping his guard up, while examining Scarlett's posture for an opening. She hit him once because he sacrificed his defense to gain a weapon, but he won't make that mistake again.

*

"You said I could," Scarlett points out. His own words are being flung back at him in the most literal of senses, though the redhead does not issue a curdling screech or set upon him in a spirit of complete violence. No, he needn't fear she is disposed towards wanton harm or ruthless acts of pressing her advantage, though it's not to imply that Scarlett is slow; nor hanging back to see what happens. A glance of concern passes over her features when he lands, as though she might be particularly surprised that he travels quite so far as he did. Next time, check that density. Her fingers are still flexed, and then she loosens the sword from the belt loop, though oddly she doesn't draw it. Not really, even as her deliberate pace opens up a front to guard like a pacing cat. "Neat. Tidy. Eastern influence?" Questions flung down as he approaches, she keeps her knees soft and her back straight, waiting for only the last moment to reach for her sword and draw it in a smooth, almost blinding quick motion that is — still — human, rather than supernatural. It might just seem that way, but the practice of iaijutsu often does. The wooden practice blade clears the loop and she snaps it out at an angle, cutting edge outwards, to intercept. Well, one's probably not going to take her by pure brutal strength right off the bat, but apparently someone has been also trained in eastern arts.

Sort of. Her gaze flickers again, tranquil steel flames in a peridot globe, and her grin is brief, almost ecstatic. "It has been a while." Since what?

*

"That I did," Alex replies, keeping the wooden blade in a defensive posture for the moment. "Eastern. Yes, you could say that. I was taken from my family and trained by a demon in Japanese swordsmanship, martial arts, and war, when I was but a child," he says, telling the story he's told a half-dozen times already since coming here. "My father wouldn't have trained me. He wanted me to live the life of a mortal. The demon saw greater things for me.. terrible things." His voice drops a bit, and he refocuses. In that moment, Scarlett might see an opening, while he's distracted. It's momentary, but it's there. Apparently the family thing is a bit of a hot-button issue.

*

"A demon." The words tumble out easily enough as she turns on a dime, as it were, shifting her stance to adjust. There is an imbalance in skill, not necessarily in Scarlett's favour. Some times she responds to a stroke with a block, intercepting his thrust or parry with the blade, and sometimes the practice sword presses too close, only to be pushed back towards Alexander with a satisfying thock! The shift of position though is something done without an effort consciously driven, for she fluidly circles him like the dials on a celestial clock. They turn and turn again, covering the quarters, a style that is well-suited for being surrounded in close combat. "What it saw did not pass. I can see that much myself. That speaks well to you. Lady Sif would never tolerate a demon," she murmurs, and then cuts sharply towards Alexander's side, twisting her wrist slightly at the last minute for a different angle of orientation. Maybe it works, and maybe it turns out terribly, but it's rather fun to test.

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