voidtreckerexpress | [Closed] The dragon's out of the bag

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[Closed] The dragon's out of the bag

Who: Esteban and Amaya
Where: Gym Carriage
When: Way Too Early on Rabbit Day 3
What: Esteban trusts Amaya with a secret
Warnings: Potential violence or mild injuries, since they're sparring

It's not their usual time. It's not their usual location.

Esteban had been a bit more pushy this time around, insisting on changing up their schedule just a bit, but he hadn't been overly open as to why. He'd insisted one last time when asking, and had used the very, very first signs that she'd ever taught him. A closed fist, thumb against his lips, palm dropping down to his chest and curling fingers around thin air. Parallel lines on each side.

{Secret-keeper. Please.}

He's taken care of all the preparations at least, having brought the mats from the training gym all the way to the sports carriage and laid them out so that they wouldn't get hurt. They have a decent space, and the area is quiet, with how early it is-- just after the train's forced reset, Esteban had asked. He'd insisted on starting with their usual warmups and light sparring, as if it was just another training session between them.

He is still facing Amaya with as much focus as he can; but the circumstances are odd, and there seems to be something distracting him. His breathing keeps on hitching each time that she moves, and his reaction time is slower. A blow that she knows he should have been able to dodge gets parried instead, leaving his left side open for a retaliation. Esteban notices, shifts backwards, trying to get some distance between them before she strikes back. It's sloppy; and he has been taught better than that, definitely.

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The reticence to explain why was a bit...worrisome, all things said and done. Things like this shouldn't be done in the dark, as it were. He'd taken on some of her basics fairly well, all things said and done, and that was a positive. But there was definitely something in the air today.

Even for his skill level, she was pulling her punches today, and he was still barely holding his own. On the upside, at least the sparring clothes are a bit better - a tank top for her with shorts. And she's comfortable enough with herself that she doesn't mind the scars that this shows. She just wished he'd find a similar sort of comfort. He's not there, not in the moment - and that's what gets you killed in a fight.

She gestures to stop, looking at him with concern, hands moving.

Your head isn't in the moment.

Yeah, he's not been subtle about it. Her broken stance shames him enough to card a hand through the short strands at the back of his neck, seeking just a bit of relief from the looming words he'd been meaning to say, or maybe the sweat gathered there. He'd failed to be open about things before. And now he regrets it, just a bit.

{Yeah. Thinking loud.} He can admit that much. "I just don't know the words t' use." It's always his problem. He says too much or too little and it comes back to haunt him in the end, because Esteban is clumsy, despite his cheer. Despite his determination to try.

"The trainin' helps though!" The movement had at the very least, and he's thankful that he's not alone to mull things endlessly. But it too is its own weight; because he'd promised himself he'd manage to find a way, and there are still no words that come to his lips to say it.

"I've gotten better with you! My punches are sharper, an' my evaluation 'f danger's been gettin' quicker. Y're a great teacher!" he encourages again, because it's not a failure on her part that Esteban's being distracted right now. "An' not only with fightin'!" {See? I learn lots with Amaya!} The sentences he builds are still simple, but there is progress.

There is progress. And that is both a good thing... and a bit of a problem, where he is concerned. He just-- needs a second to find what he's trying to say. Or rather, how he's trying to say it. His nose scrunches with a tiny frown as he tries once again to find the words to use.

"Can I fight you seriously?" Words always fall so short for him. He's nervous, but determined, and his eyes meet her own when he finally manages to push this tiny sentence out, even though it's not enough.

He feels... silly. A little stupid. It shouldn't be as much as he makes it out to be, but he is afraid. Afraid-- but he's chosen to speak up. He's chosen this, and he knows he can trust her.

It's just a small fall; the lurch of his heart when there's nothing but empty air underneath him. His lips curve up at the though, the memories and reassurance that warms him inside, between his ribs. Dragons hatched from the moon. They were born to learn how to fly.

"I'm way scarier when I get serious though," he warns, buoyed, feeling light this time, and reassured. He trusts Amaya. And he's chosen to tell her.

It... might be a bit hard, but he doesn't think she'd blame him for what happened to her sister-- and this is just going to make him more nervous if he keeps thinking about it. He takes off his shirt, feeling the itch down his back when his wings are so close to the skin, and stretches, settling on the mats in front of her, and waiting for her signal.

She considers what he's saying, what he's asking. But there's only one way to find out what's going on. She rolls her neck from side to side, stretching out her arms in front of her, then falling into a ready stance.

And nods.

There is a deep, slow breath, the echoes of silence rattling between his ears. He lets it linger just one more heartbeat, before stretching through the shift, feeling the large wings roll along his spine and unfold across the suddenly small area. Freed, they curve around his shoulders to cocoon around his frame; a living shield of bones and leather. Effective in hand-to-hand. Dangerous if she were to have her sword.

Behind him, a fanned tail helps him keep his balanced on strangely set feet, toes more sturdy on the ground, while his heel is propped a smidge higher with tension. Horns curve in through his hair, both foreign, and yet probably entirely familiar.

Esteban doesn't even dare blink in case he misses it, misses any warning. He smiles at his friend, eyes just as blue as a summer sky, smile warm just as he always would smile with her around. But it's quieter, just a tad more weary.

"Is it too much?" he asks, because if she needs a minute, if she needs time to adjust, if she doesn't want to see him like this-- he'd understand. He'd understand.

A year ago, it would've ruined her day - and she'd probably have gone straight for her sword. But this isn't then. Since then, she's stood before the Queen of the Dragons, hand in hand with a cute elf lady - the mortal enemy of her people, supposedly.

So what happens is a look of wonder, and then, when he speaks, she falls back into her ready stance, signing briefly.

Not enough to beat me, kid. She winks. But it's nice to meet all of you. Now bring it.

There is such open relief in his smile when she taunts him, a casual slouch to his stance as he grows less nervous, more assured. His wings flick, splaying back as he lowers his stance, readying himself for the challenge she's tossed at him.

"Oh, now it's on," he taunts, his grin summer-bright as he prepares his first attack. "I'm def'nitely gonna win today," he dares say, cocky with the assurance she's breathed in him.

She's not afraid. She's not afraid, and Esteban feels his limbs relax, tension leeching out of him as he gets ready for this fight. Today, he's going all out-- all limbs, all tricks, all that he knows; because for once, he doesn't have to be afraid. Her confidence inspires his own.

Win or lose the fight, Esteban has gained too much for him to mind.

So he lunges recklessly, his first blow obvious, not out of desperation, but because he can try for once; learn how his limbs shift more than as a panic driven counter. His wings provide the perfect buffer, shielding his sides from any retaliation as he goes for a high kick to her left shoulder.

Edited 2022-05-14 02:43 (UTC)

That's the whole point. Urge him on, support him, challenge him. And honestly, she's seen so much worse - there's nothing in him to fear. He's...well, a bit like a puppy, in the best possible way. Enthusiastic, learning, affectionate. Growing.

She moves like lightning under that blow, turning into him, reaching out and grabbing hold of his wrist, using his own momentum to roll him over her shoulder, stepping back, hopping from front foot to back foot.

Good try, kid.

There is the space of a blink, and Esteban is flat on his back-- squashing his wings a bit-- with a dazed look in his eyes. He'd expected a blow, not a throw, and his overconfidence has him back to square one, but he just snickers brightly and picks himself up again.

Focus. He's being too giddy and excited; his movements too obvious. He has the advantage of his many limbs after all, and Esteban's surprisingly graceful for his size, advantages he should really learn to use better than before. A deep breath, the curve of his smile still present. He watches Amaya more closely this time around, tries to think of something she would not expect.

His limbs shift like liquid and he darts, a wing tucked close and covering his left shoulder, too bulky to grab. He drops to his right at her height, left foot lashing at her knee to strike once-- and the fan of his tail tickles near her calf, just malleable enough to attempt to hook around her ankle and pull as he rolls back.

His wings keep shifting like a living shield, limbs an extension of himself, of his thoughts. He is as comfortable with seven limbs as he is with four, always aware of just how far they reach, how high they rise; a confidence born of many, many hours of practice into his own awareness.

Edited 2022-05-16 13:48 (UTC)

She signs quickly as he settles into his preparations again.

You're showing me what you're going to do before you do it. Don't overcommit.

His movement pulls her leg out from under her, and that's definitely an advantage to a tail - there is a grunt as she hits the mat, but she's not staying there easily - her legs lash our, wrapping around that nearby limb, levering one way while the rest of her pushes the other - using his own knee against him.

It only bends one way, after all - so physics dictates he either falls backwards or, alternatively, it eventually snaps. She hopes he starts to notice that.

There's a yelp, a short resistance, before her threat has him crumbling backwards as intended, wings already curving to absorb and divert the fall and help him roll back to his feet. He kicks at her legs in a clumsy attempt to force her to let go, if only so he can get a bit of distance to ask his question-- she needs to see his lips after all.

Pausing across the mats, he lingers until he knows she can see him, his ever present smile gone as he focuses harder into their fight.

"Is it my wings that give me 'way?" He asks, because he's never been able to ask; he'd never been in this form in front of another person for so long other than close, close friends he'd hugged with all of his limbs. He'd had his fair share of fights, but he could never train like this, which is why it is so important to him that he listens to her, that he learns from her.

She rolls quickly back up onto her feet, circling with him.

She shakes her head in the negative. She mimics his attempted punches, emphasizing that there's shoulder rotation. Then she shadow boxes a few shots of her own, in which there's no rotation whatsoever - the punches snap out much more quickly.

He imitates her at a distance at first, the movement unfamiliar and awkward, since he was always in movement when fighting. To stay still and lash out quickly is harder than he expected, and a slight furrow of concentration comes to pinch the skin between his brows. He paces, tries it mid-movement, and again, his automatism is to rotate into the punch. Hun.

The wings on his back shuffle from side to side as he adjusts again, tries to keep himself from rolling his shoulders as he punches. There's also a tell on the longer limbs, she can see, a slight twitch that goes to curve around the attacking limb, possibly as an attempt to cover from any retaliation, but it does make his attack predictable when he strikes. He looks up at her with a nod, ready to resume their spar.

She slaps that first punch aside, but nods her approval. She holds two fingers out, pointing at her eyes, then at him. Indicating he should watch.

And she moves into his guard then, hopping from foot to foot in a wide stance, making it difficult to guess which side she's going to attack from. Then she lashes out, punching upwards, aiming for the centre of mass after feinting towards the head. Neither contains a fraction of her strength, of course - this is about teaching, not hurting.

She staggers him, surprised, and her second hit gets him defensive, immediately backing away and stepping off the mats. He has to catch his reaction by the throat. It rattles between his ribs, the need to move to get out, to strike back. Fight then flight crumpled in every single limb. No; he is here to learn. He is here to learn.

"Bit too quick, I didn't catch that!" When he steps back in the ring, he has to take a steadying breath, but he's more stable, less unaware. He braces for her next hit, watching her more closely now that he knows what moves she's trying to pull off. The bouncing on her toes gets him wary, but he is watching-- most particularly her hands, hoping to predict the strike.

And just for that purpose, she repeats the exact same sequence - though with a bit more speed, moving gracefully almost like a dancer - to give him a chance to counter it.

He sees it this time around, and it helps him, is less of a reaction and more of an observation. His breath seeps out of his lungs calmly just after her first strike, and the second gets deflected, a shift in his weight helping him push the blow just beyond his shoulder as he ducks sideways underneath her arm.

It is a dance, really; a dance between the two of them; a question of timing and keeping ahead enough to see the next move. He'd get a chance to counter her, if he'd just been a tad quicker about it-- but his stance leaves him wide open for a strike of her own again.

And this time she whirls, a foot coming up high and - stopping, an inch from his head, before pulling back.

You have to presume the attack can come from anywhere, she signed. The punches made you think I would stick to that - be ready for sudden changes.

Right. He hasn't practiced in too long. His spinning and flow dances keep him in shape, but he'd lacked a partner, or any training at all from fighting opponents in... far too long. He'd gotten complacent, as he learned to hide his nature better, to ignore the way his wings itched when he fell down from up high, or someone snuck up on him. He'd always been reckless, but this is much, much worse than he thought.

{Again} It doesn't make him back down. Each defeat is upsetting, but more in the way that it snaps at him to do better, take a step higher. He knows he can do it-- he can keep up with her at the level she's set, if he gets his head fully, completely into the fight. He doesn't like to fight; has already told her that in a fight or flight, he would rather take flight. But this might not always be an option, and he is not backing down.

He pounces first, skip-quick steps darting closer to the fighter as he lashes a wing out, far longer than his own arms could reach. The blow is soft, a fragment of his strength, and the limb is already weaker than his arms, but it is a distraction, a strike to block that might give him the opening he seeks. Closing in, he focuses, strikes with the snap-forwards punch she's reminded him to use, minimalizing the shoulder movement.

She holds up her forearms to block the former strike, stepping back at the second and managing to slap it aside. But - she has to step back to do it, has to retreat. And she nods, approvingly, signing again.

Better! That gives you momentum - the key to winning against a skilled opponent is forcing them to respond, not to plan.

There's a firm nod from her apprentice, a tiny upwards quirk of his lips, but he doesn't get distracted by his newfound tiny victory. He lets her settle again, pacing back to his side of the mats. Esteban stretches both his wings out from there, and raises a hand to fold it towards himself, in a somewhat universal "come at me" gesture.

He is slightly better at the defensive after all-- that he has more than enough practice with, and this time, he doesn't intend for it to be two or three blows, before a refocus.

"Spar with me!" he calls out, lips quirking again, into his tiny smile, to make sure they are on the same page.

She cricks her neck from side to side, feigning a non-chalant shrug, and then moves again; the same approach, but this time she throws herself forward after the first few steps, rolling down and into him, rising with her shoulder approximately where his midsection ought to be, aiming to lift him off balance, a leg then lashing out to try and trip him up.

His first dodge is graceful, pivoting on a foot to avoid her shoulder, but leaves her with a single point to target next. Her leg trips him easily, and he shouts, but doesn't linger, landing on his other ankle more forcefully than he wants, but it gives him the momentum to skip backwards-- a mistake. Esteban's first instinct is always to keep his distance, and he has got to stop this.

He dashes closer in return, runs into danger, ever reckless as he is. A sharp punch is aimed at her chin, one he's confident she will block, so his wing sweeps in the shallow space between them to knock her arm aside, hoping to throw off her aim.

The problem for him is that closing the range with Amaya is a titanically bad idea. She's a whole-body combatant - a sword is just a happy little bonus to her. She grabs hold of his wing, ducking under his punch rather than blocking it, and pivots - and then he's got a choice: either be spun into the wall, or have the wing strained.

Once he's there, she jams an elbow up close to his throat, holding him there before stepping back.

Of course, she signs, I've already won this fight before we started. Can you tell me why?

Because they're in a confined space, and he's not flying. His greatest advantage is mobility - keeping this fight close and on the ground plays into her strengths.

He chooses the wall.

There's a scramble to get her arm off his neck for a half-second, wings flailing to dislodge her before he gives in, and his companion steps back. He misses the first part of her signs, even with the SCA sputtering the mechanical voice that translates for her, focusing on his breathing for a split second too long, before he hears her last sentence.

"Um," hang on, he actually does not know, other than the 'oh, shit' moment. "I shouldn't 've backed off," that much he knows. "An' rushin' back in without a plan was not smart." At least both of these are true. Esteban's wings droop a bit at his failures, but it doesn't take him long to straighten up again. He'll get back up. He always does.

She shakes her head, stepping forward to gently poke his forehead.

Don't let this stick you to the idea of failures - you made mistakes, you will learn from them, you will improve. Next time you'll be better, better still after that. I've got years of experience on you...you're not going to beat that on the first try.

She smiles, shrugging.

Maybe not a hundred tries - but you'll learn.

His lips quirk up again, and his nose pinches a bit over the bridge with how bright his eyes grow, clearly amused.

"I always learn," he is quick to claim, and the spark in his gaze brightens all the more. "It's actually one of my favourite stories," he shares with her, delight lacing through his limbs as he steps away from the wall, stretching the slight ache from being thrown into it away.

"My grandfather was the one to tell me. He said that dragons hatched from the first moon," he grins, eyes held upwards, arms stretching as if he could see it in the non-existent sky above them, hands splayed against an imaginary glow. "Because in order to learn how to fly--" his arms drop, eyes closing as he recalls the words that mean so much to him.

"First, they had to learn how to fall."

He gets back up. He always does.

So Esteban settles on the other side of the mats, grins up at his companion, and nods.

"Round two?" It's barely a question, really.

She stretched out her arms, rolled her neck, and nodded.

Bring it on, kid.

*~*~*

He still got his ass kicked.

For all of his confidence, even his extra limbs hadn't been as much of a help as he'd hoped, and in the end, he'd landed a few meager hits, but hadn't gotten a good one at all. He'd say it was frustrating, if only he wasn't that encouraged by it.

Amaya was teaching him. Esteban was bound to get better the more he trained with her, and it would make him a dangerous opponent, now that he was more open with her about his abilities. It was also the first time he'd started strategizing with his wings having only used them as a last resort before. It makes him hope that he'll manage to be an asset to his team, rather than a burden.

Flat on his back and down on the mats, Esteban is breathing deeply, feeling sweat stick to his forehead and neck, and strangely cold after using his wings so much. No doubt he lacks aether now, but there's a strange sense of exhilaration at it all, something comforting about...

"Thanks!" he manages at first, before half-rising from his seat, and gesturing it out. {Thank you} "For the lessons. An' for--" here, he falters, before grinning wide as he can again, "not bein' afraid." {You don't fear me. I am happy, safe, thank you.}

His wings have since been tucked away, melting through his back as if they'd never been present at all. Tail and horns gone, all of his limbs just as casual, just as normal as if he'd never shifted at all. It makes it easier for him to sit up, less of a hassle to walk over to the bottles he'd left aside for the both of them and toss one easily to his companion when he's sure she can see it coming.

"What weapons d'you fight with?" he asks after draining almost half of his water bottle, trying to pace himself from drinking it all in one go.

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[Closed] The dragon's out of the bag

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Skip the rest of the training?

Works for me?

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