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Ryoun glared at Miguel’s meticulous fingers as they slipped the needle in and out of his skin. Another scar for the collection of many, and one of the few inflicted by his captain during their sparring.
Dilandau didn’t apologize, he just compensated by allowing Ryoun to feed him more vegetables or agreeing to giving up half his protein portion at dinner for a few days.
Gatti leaned over to examine the knick on Ryoun’s shoulder, whistling at the depth and size of the cavern now across his shoulder. A good few centimeters to the bone on his left shoulder.
Ryoun hissed when Miguel’s needle sunk in too deep. Ryoun’s hand clenched as he tried to refrain from punching Miguel.
“Sorry, sorry,” Miguel chuckled. “Almost done.”
Ryoun took a deep breath and feigned relaxing. “You said you were almost done a minute ago.”
“Do you really want a bad scar? Because I can give you a bad scar,” Miguel said and leaned over to look down his nose at Ryoun.
Gatti patted his right shoulder and stood up. “Don’t you guys use practice swords or something?”
“Practice steels, you mean?” Ryoun asked. “Yes, Lord Dilandau calls them that, but they’re just hand-me-down, broken, or dull swords.”
“Does he just collect them or something?” Gatti asked, looking through the mass of barrels with old swords. Some had been rusted, others just broken or bent. Some had no blades at all. There was an open crate with just shattered bits of iron and metal.
“I think those with dragon blood hoard things like dragons used to,” Miguel laughed. “Dilandau’s hoard is weapons apparently.”
“Miguel,” Dilandau emerged through the training hall doors and his eyes narrowed on Miguel. “Is Ryoun done?”
Miguel’s sheepish smile gave his guilt away. “Almost sir, though it’s my recommendation that he takes the rest of the day to recover from blood loss. There was quite a bit on the floor.”
Dilandau seemed to stiffen, unsure if he was being urged to apologize. His eyes fell on Gatti who, much to his slight confusion, smiled brightly at him. “What are you doing?”
‘Waiting for Ryoun to punch Miguel,’ he thought. “Nothing sir,” he said instead. He wasn’t about to try a bit of humor just yet. It took long enough for him to get the two others comfortable with him. Dilandau was another story. The few months working under him Gatti only experienced mild contempt when they weren’t on mission.
Dilandau studied him for a moment, seemingly in consideration.
“Sir, Gatti’s style of fighting may be more complimentary to you than my traditional training standards.” Ryoun piped up.
Gatti cursed inwardly, and wondered if he could get away with bumping into Miguel so he’d stab Ryoun for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, just he wanted to take things a bit slower.
“Yes, actually that’s very true.” Dilandau smiled darkly. “Gatti? Do you object? I could always send you to sword training elsewhere.”
“N-no sir,” Gatti choked out. It was hard enough to keep up the job of smiling, let alone refraining from giving into being trained by Folken’s “best”.
“Good,” Dilandau grinned and gestured to the weapons. “Meet me in five minutes or I’ll come find you, that’s an order.” With barely a glance to what he touched, he grabbed a blade from a barrel and left them in quiet fear.
“I hope you get blood poisoning, Ryoun.” Gatti stood and filed through the barrels and sword racks for something un-lethal, and strong enough to withstand some attack. “Pray to the goddess for me,” he said.
Ryoun held back a laugh until Gatti had left behind the training room doors. “He’ll thank me one day.”
“Probably not,” Miguel replied.
Gatti had taken a deep breath before entering the slightly open door to the hall. The training halls were made up of different rooms. Each room had wide windows that overlooked the empire. They were cold, but everywhere was cold when you were at the altitude the empire resided. He didn't attend normal training but maybe once or twice. He found it useless with the abilities he already had from a long life spent learning to stay alive.
Dilandau’s back was to him when he entered, he was wearing the normal training pants and the undershirt. Dilandau already had his own collection of scars, but Gatti knew better than to think those were completely enemy related.
Gatti cleared his throat some, and announced himself. “Sir?”
Dilandau’s head rose some and he glanced over his shoulder. “Good, I was expecting you to find a place to hide. The look on your face was the first time I saw you frightened. I have to say it was almost delightful knowing you fear me in a way.”
Gatti wanted to correct him, but nodded. “Sir, I know you’ll give me a challenge is all,” he said, and held up his blade. “I’m just concerned with the steels we’d be using, I don’t like to spar with something I could kill you with."
Dilandau’s eyes fluttered in disbelief, and finally his head cocked to the side. His red eyes narrowed in delight. “You, kill me?” he asked.
“Incidentally, sir?” Gatti added, daring not to insinuate that he could maybe beat Dilandau in a not-so-fair fight.
Dilandau’s eyes closed and he gave a slight shrug, entertaining the idea that Gatti would fumble as one with a grain of realism. “Of course,” Dilandau chuckled. Again he stared Gatti down before tossing the chosen steel to the side. It clattered and nicked the floor.
Gatti set his down. “Hand to hand?” he asked.
“If we must.” Dilandau crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t do anything too underhanded.”
“Me?” Gatti asked. “Never.”
Dilandau got into stance, his shoulders solid and feet spread wide.
Gatti debated his luck, Dilandau could still take him down easily with his bare hands. He had a few underhanded techniques he could use to his benefit. But Dilandau already said no.
Dilandau moved first, and Gatti knew he’d have to resort to defensive.
Gatti dodged the first swing, pushing Dilandau’s arm to one side and tip-toeing to the other.
Dilandau was much faster, his body turned and his foot swung towards Gatti’s back. His heel connected with the other’s shoulder for only a second before Gatti grabbed his ankle and threw him back.
Dilandau only laughed, the look in his eye darkened. The fight grew more with ferocity as Dilandau’s strikes made impact a few times before Gatti was able to get one in on the rare occasion he could block and knock his commander off balance.
Growing weary, Gatti tried to ease his panting and the growing headache from one too many taps to the head. The slow beads of sweat were starting to itch under his undershirt, making it dangerous to adjust or itch. If he wasn't guarding he had to be punching, a rule he quickly learned in sparring with Dilandau.
He stepped back, Gatti could tell the fight was probably wearing on Dilandau as well. Though not evenly matched, Gatti could stand on his own with how well he avoided full blows.
Dilandau was flushed, the color seemed to stain his cheeks easily under his pallid skin. A rare sight to behold of his commander, something to keep in his memory for later.
Gatti was ready to call it, but the second he started to drop his guard Dilandau struck again. Gatti took a step back, but his foot, damp from the dripping sweat slid out from under him, and kicked Dilandau’s shin from under him.
Ryoun heard the thunks of bodies hitting the floor, and decided that was the sound worthy of checking on. Before then, the good fifteen minutes of grunts, stomps and mild laughter from each of them didn't warrant it.
Slowly he got up, ready to break off the fight if Dilandau resorted to biting or if Gatti chose a crotch shot.
The doors to the sparring area opened.
Gatti was on the floor, Dilandau above him on his hands and knees with one of Gatti’s legs rested over his thigh as if they were going to start something other than fighting. Both fair skinned fighters were flushed, sweaty and part of Gatti’s shirt had been ripped when Dilandau grabbed it haphazardly.
“Well,” Ryoun started, “this is awkward.”