1963-12-22 - Fanning Asgard's Wrath
Summary: Lord Fandral is none too happy to hear about the state of Asgard, while putting Scarlett through her paces.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: Blow Out - Gangly
fandral rogue 


A light frosting of snow covers the ground in the backyard of Lady Sif's home. The morning sun shines, lighting the icicles that hang from the trees. Fandral has just finished walking a circle in the snow, creating an area for him and Lady Scarlett to practice. While he waits for her to arrive, he flexes in the circle, getting his muscles limber while he waits for their appointment. They're to spar with swords today. The master swordsman seems to be in good spirits as he readies himself.

*

What pristine beauty the winter brings. Ephemeral and short-lived, the delicacy of frost painted in rimed relief on window panes belies the deadly cold and the chilling effect of snow blanketing the dormant earth. Tis a season of sorrow and death, loss and remembrance. No one easily walks out into December at the first day of winter, and expects to find all is well in the world. Only modern comforts have made this plausible, whereas the time of hardship and hunger so often accompanies the darkest days of the year. No one has celebrated the change of the year, the celebration gone ashen. Perhaps the death of a prince of Asgard has something to do with that. Others look forward to Christmas in a few days, and they dream of better times in the hours ahead. No matter how pretty it may appear outside, it's not an easy time for them. The redheaded mortal in the midst of the Asgardians has been absent in a sense, even when fully present, shrouded from everyone in the manner of a hooded lantern. The light comes out from time to time, but she is very much lost to the drifts of her studies and thoughts. Too much of one or the other is a hazard.

Scarlett emerges in Asgardian stylings: form-fitting leather jacket, leggings cut to give maximum flexibility for someone who regularly flies and incorporates flights into her very fighting styles. Wooden practice swords ride off her hip, and she eschews anything like a cape or cloak. Riding up her arms, her gloves are separated from the jacket by a gap about an inch and a half wide, held together by round metal links. It matters. Skin to skin gives dangerous contact and effect for any opponent, Asgardian included.

*

Fandral gives a flourished bow to Lady Scarlett as she enters his preview, "M'lady, it is good to see you on this fine day." His manner is pleasant, polite even it is a bit cooler these days since recovering from his bought of illness. While others seem to be in sober morning, none of the barren depression touches this man as he is a Lord of Spring and is a shining beacon even in the darkness. The gold locks are pulled back into a pony tail, he then pulls out his wooden blade, handling the weapon as if it's an extension of his arm. He gets into his fighting stance as he converses, "How is the winter day seeing to you?"

Strange, how an innocent question seems almost boiler plate and not at all like the passionate man that should be angry, upset, something other than his calm demeanor. As a personal guard to the royals of Asgardian, a death of a prince should devastate him, but it seems not. He is more than fit to take on the challenge of the strange Midgardian that wants to learn more of his people, "Being the gentleman that I am, I will let you take the first blow."

*

The curt bow from the waist shows Scarlett suffers nothing in the way of limitations in her current attire, light though the armour is by any measure. They might be playing with live blades, and they might not, but she clearly has little concern about the damage done. The girl who personifies Fandral's seasonal opposition straightens; she of the autumn aspect raises her palms in greeting, and thus shows herself to be unarmed. For the moment, at least. Gloves creak as she pulls both of the blades free of their loops on her belt, and transfers one to her off-hand. Renouncing peace means settling into a rather simple guard position, the left held to the side and the right angled towards Fandral. She has at least that much right, her dim jade gaze settled upon her. "As all other days, twenty-four hours long." It could be humour, but any mirth there is purely glacial, the smile every bit as warm.

He is calm; she is the void, the promise of a reaper's scythe to level lives on the field. Weight distributed evenly gives her a certain lightness on her feet, but the fate of this is already set: the Midgardner will lose. It's simply a matter of how, duration, and the depth of the beating she's willing to take. She answers him in Aesir: "«You should not. I am not a warrior. Not to trust.»" About as close as she can get to explaining that her methods are crude… and she's the Trickster's, or was, after all. When it comes to fighting, she probably mined the practice field.

*

Fandral picked the location and already walked the field so if a trap had been set, it was not one to be blown by his steps. He moves with grace and surety as he moves through the motions, noting the girl's crude skill with a laugh, "I trust only my kin in battle my dear and you…you are not one of them." Cruel perhaps to remind the girl that she is not Asgardian, but the jest is light and playful as he takes a step to swipe past her guard and land a swat on the behind if her defense is not in keeping with his movements, "But…all things can be taught with patience and time. Even if it may take you longer than perhaps it took to understand my native tongue." Her keen memory may be somewhat helpful but doesn't give her an advantage against this master swordsman.

*

She knows precisely what she is, the soul-thief, and worse. Sif puts her through her paces enough that Scarlett doesn't even flinch. Instead she turns, using the second blade as incentive to distract from coming at her primary side. The young woman rotates with ease, giving no inclination to whether she is right or left handed other than guesswork. "Yes, and none of us are afraid of our own stories," she replies, swiping the practice sword down to intercept the blow before it hits her, though she might be pinned briefly until exerting a bit of force to unlock their blades. "I do in a year what I must. I haven't three millennia to my name." In truth she has none, for one needs a name to do that. The advantage here in the fight might be that her resilience is abominable, in the truest sense of the word, and she can take far more hits than she should before even flagging. That's what one gets, fighting with gods, and she does that enough to be troublesome.

*

Fandral isn't using his full strength when he hits her again and again as he works with her on her form and stance as they spar in the winter snow. While his manner is at times borderline harsh, he does let Scarlett know where her flaws in combat lie. His precision with the blade so precise and it's clear that are little here that can match him, "Lady Scarlett…yes, that's it." He encourages her when she does something right, even if there's a sarcastic gleam to those teasing eyes as he moves her through the steps, "I do say…your endurance is something of a wonder. Most would have bowed out by now." A surprise to the swordsman that is used to beating his opponents not just through skill but also by outlasting them, "How do you manage to carry on?"

*

He doesn't use his full strength, which is a good thing. 'Tis a girl who could (and has) fought a giant and won, on her own two feet, no less. Her pivotal rotations scorn the earth as much as she willfully denies gravity, pirouetting on such rapid turns that it might take him a little by surprise. Fast, she's that. And when she chooses to lash out with one of the practice swords after being struck on the flank for what might be the thirteenth time, it smacks the swordsman's blade back with force that will probably require both of his hands to keep hold of. Or else he might just be without a weapon as she finally bothers to turn some of her untested gifts upon him flat out. "Why my Lord, you almost sound like a lover. Little more that way now. Up. No, don't hold your breath." The cultivated elegance of her Anglo accent melts around the sheer perversity of the image conjured, and she seems to know it, eyes glittering when she plants her heel in the ground. "How much more can you take? Who knew someone so dainty and wilting could be such a partner? Hidden depths, sweet Vanir god, hidden depths." The flurry of lashings are surprisingly quick and precise; one might even hit. Sparing herself nothing but brutal clarity requires bruising, or bleeding, as the moment takes. Though a wooden sword isn't likely to break her skin any more than she can ram her sword through his dense tissues. Theirs is a physiology not all that different in some ways, which also explains why getting drunk is a lost cause on her.

*

Fandral grins wider has her movements quicken, almost so fast that his own eyes are deceived so he uses his instincts rather than vision to continue to parry and strike at the young woman. A well timed lash does indeed cause him to temporarily lose his sword but as it falls to the ground, he catches the blunt side of the blade with his boot and kicks it up so he can catch it in his hand again. In that time she lands more blows upon him. While now his hair is no longer in it's perfect form, his twinkling eyes show that he's now enjoying the exercise more. Never let it be said the Fandral prefers an easy prize, "A lover? I did not know that you were in the market Lady Scarlett. Perhaps I should audition?" His words are just teasing because he's aware that she can not go skin to skin with anyone because it does appear that the Asgardian isn't afraid of tempting fate a second time by flirting with the elusive Midgardian that seems so quick to move out of his blows now that they've gotten to some sync, "I can be quite creative my dear…" He arches a brow with a teasing look, "Even with the given challenges."

*

No smile greets Fandral. No breathless wonder on the other side of the sword, no grin on a knife's edge. The only time she laughs is when she dances with live steel, and that hour is long away from here. She relies upon the guide he gives, not quite skilled enough to know where to take the fight other than directly in Fandral's face. Such is the truth: she does not yield other than to be pushed back, dodged, evaded. All those are certain possibilities. She's no master. Several simply happen to live in her skull, murmuring among the cacophonous riot, none of them raised to the surface to help. When he kicks the sword she knocks free, she has to flinch away rather than strike or be struck, failing to push that advantage. Well, whoops. "My lover is dead. Shall I descend into Hel and sing again to the Queen in hopes she might release him? There's a tale how such was done for a son of Odin, that one descended to be free. Is it worth it? What could I, a mortal, possibly offer the queen of death beyond my very mortal soul and all those I contain?" She hops back, hissing at the next smack that has to /hurt/, but hurt is beyond caring about. She does not give him a chance to catch her with another strike because she damn well cheats by bending like a bizarre ribbon and ducking sideways with all the grace of a yoga master.

Ah. They so rarely use it for martial purposes, but yoga, like tai chi, is an art that serves war perfectly well. If one doesn't mind about rolling through the dirt, it's not so bad, and she is quick to come out of a roll if she's not flattened in the meantime. It's possible she is. "Though, last time, she was a bitter hag, and even the promise I might end up in Valhalla at the rate I'm going is unlikely to seduce her. No, to release the Trickster I'd probably have to give her several forests. Or he's got a way out and then I look like an idiot. Hard to say whether you should audition. I slay what I touch. Your immortality's worth that, is it?"

*

Fandral considers her words as she asks what Hel might want in exchange of the Trickster, "Ahh…the Trickster is quite a prize my dear and as you noted one far more capable of rousting himself from her clutches than yourself." He points to himself, pausing in his fight so he can make a point, "I came to Hel's passage but did not enter through, there are ways my dear to evade her, trick her even if you know them." A secret perhaps lurks there in the Lord of Spring's gaze, "But such a quest is not done with little preparation and you might not have the means to pull such a trick." He watches her carefully, noting her flexibility, even giving her a chance to stand again once she does her roll on the ground, "And I am not immortal, only hard to kill." He gives her a wink, "And there are ways to love another without coming skin to skin. It just takes a creative mind and careful touch." He doesn't not pursue her too hard, giving her time to recover and consider his flirtation, "A challenge I would not mind undertaking even with it's given risks. Perhaps losing a piece of me would not be a horrible thing. After all, I have lived much in these centuries, a sliver here and there would not be without great cost if the reward was greater."

*

She dances with him in a harsh one. "A prize indeed. I imagine he'll make mock of her, if he is in fact dead. I doubt he remains so. The first rule of trickery, false death. Illusions and lies." She tosses away the second blade, hurtling it end over end halfway towards the house. It lands with a thump, and she turns on him, darting back several steps, brushing the dust off her clothes with a hand. It might seem so laissez-faire, a weakness to be exploited. Or he's being baited. "Perhaps I do not. Our lady might, however, and putting Hela's nose out of joint, if it hasn't fallen into her skull, is surely worth the effort. Who is to say a little heroism isn't worth the fun? I don't even have to win, just be amused."

She tosses the sword airborne and leaps up to get it, snatching it out of the air. There might be a disadvantage. "So, Lord of Spring, the first round to you. Round two, let's see." Exactly how that will work when she's three feet off the ground… ingenuity and creativity, no?

*

"Yes, I have seen the Trickster play with Hel and come out on top before. There is no reason why he won't find himself out of this mess," Fandral agrees with her and smiles, "Which is why I refuse to morn the man at this time." He doesn't believe that Loki is out for the count, only experiencing a minor set back, "How are the others doing? I have been keeping my head down, seeing to my duties while waiting for Odin's sword to find me." For he did choose to try to free Amora from her punishment without his permission. While his illness might have stilled Odin's hand, it does not mean he will not be brought to task when next they meet on Asgard.

Fandral gives a hearty laugh when she tells him that the first round is his. He had no doubt in that. He watches her leap up in the air to get her sword and then stays three feet off the ground, "Getting creative, are we not? So you mean to fight me on your rules?" He starts to adjust his stance to keep in mind she's flying, not running at him with her sword.

*

A bleak, shimmering sound lies there. "What rules? You never declared I must stay on the ground." To be fair, she has made a good point. No one ever said she must. Thus the girl hangs suspended at a height that might give most pause, given it's fairly easy for her to kick them. Or float higher, since she has little to actually keep her at a given height. Dance or spin, it falls to her to do it. "I know naught. Grief sets them on their courses. Amora took me under her wing, as Sif has, though she is the foremost of mages in Asgard now." Though not among Asgardians; there's still three higher than her. The redhead twirls the blade, and flexes her wrist. That'll have a bit of a bruise in an hour. "The wolves have returned to Vanaheim; and I lose a friend. I know naught of the Valkyrie sleeping in human form save that her restlessness brings her forth to unhappy slumber. What Thor has done, I do not know. His counsel is his own, and Lady Sif's."

*

Fandral doesn't look sad to find the Prince of Wolves have left them. The two had a funny falling out as of late and they hadn't spent much time together. At the mention of Thor being gone, he frowns because his prince did not take Fandral with him, "He should have taken me with him." But of course, Fandral has been on the bench lately because of his recovery. Although, one would not know that he had been sick based on his skill with the sword because he's fighting well today, "And yes…there are no rules so if you choose to use your flight as an advantage, go ahead. It's not something to do in a duel mind you but on the battlefield, fly away." He then moves his sword arm in a way to deal with a flying foe rather than one on the ground. While his defense is excellent, and he's able to get in a few more hits, Rogue is doing much better with this advantage.

*

The floating of the young woman in place might be enough for Fandral to consider the match done. "On the battlefield, the contrary. Fight until you win, you retreat, or you die. I frankly don't care which outcome prevails in my person, only the cause has a purpose." Whatever that cause is, the rebel in question isn't exactly speaking about, for her own business and purpose are established by the endless rotation of the seasons and the lives that rise and fall around her. She abruptly flits up, out of reach and shakes her head. "This gives no pleasure. I can drive myself to exhaustion and find no comfort in it. I scarce know what to make of my own thoughts. What must one do to perceive a meaning in… any of it?" And such is the cause that she simply drops to the ground a moment later, landing in a puff of dirt and her feet receiving a solid thump for their efforts. "I have no heart for this, my lord. Forgive me. You might find Alexander a better partner; he's the son of Ares, after all, and a ward of Sif for now."

*

"You should take better care of yourself Lady Scarlett," Fandral tells her with a look, putting his practice blade down when it's apparent the fight is over, "There are those here that have grown fond of you and would not want to see your injured." He strides over to put the blade away once she mentions that she's done, "And it's fine…we can break for now and take up on this later." He glances over at her, "If you ever need me to calm…" He gives a shrug for manipulating emotions is something he does well, "I can help you find calm in the noise…it doesn't last but it's good if you need a break from things." He gives her another look, there's a bit of conflict there as if he's not sure if he wants to just be her friend or not. Perhaps more…it's fleeting as the look is shuttered to his usual pleasant smile.

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