7656/With Accompanying Soundtrack

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With Accompanying Soundtrack
Date of Scene: 01 September 2021
Location: Central Park
Synopsis: A beginning. Sword lesson between Fandral and Rahne. No soundtrack was present. I lied.
Cast of Characters: Rahne Sinclair, Fandral




Rahne Sinclair has posed:
The hunter returns to the park. Sniffing the air again, she discards the scents of the normal people carefully. The scents are wrong, but she knows that he comes here. His schedule is erratic, his timing kinda stinks. But it'd be no fun as a hunt if this were easy.

Rahne Sinclair knows that the scent in the air is that man's. People told her, they told her. He comes here, sometimes. He teaches when it suits him. But you can't predict it. That made her lip curl, and she started coming. Looking. Hoping.

She looks around a tree, knowing that his scent is faded. She isn't expecting him to be here. She may rely on her nose a bit much, but it's always done well. But as the small redheaded girl, looking like a 13-year old, hunts, there is nothing childish about that.

She'll find him. A girl is patient.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral comes to the park on a regular basis now, having enjoyed putting on his displays of fencing for an adoring public. Who doesn't want to be adored, after all? He might not be a god in the conventional Asgardian sense, but he was a hero and what's a hero without a bard to sing their praises or an adoring public to buy him wine?

The park is a little spare this afternoon, however, with the fencing club away for the week going to a tournament on the West coast, leaving him with none of his usual sparring partners. "You, sausage vendor!" he calls out to the hot dog cart, "Fancy taking up the blade?" he asks, gesturing towards the sword he'd brought along, thrust into hte ground for any takers in search of a challenge.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She goes still, as the scent of hot dogs gives way to something else. Her body goes over goosebumps, and she realizes that this is it. The urge to go full wolf, to bare fangs and leap, it's so very strong!

You can't scare him away. You have to do this right. No horrible wolf forms, no terror. This is not for the werewolf. This is for me.

Her face looks out, dashing from tree to tree. The sausage vendor asks Fandral, what would a mook like me do with a sword? He means well. He doesn't understand.

She comes up behind him. Quiet. Don't ruin it. A little closer, she comes another step, then another. His back is right there.

One more step, and she is too close. She's within is range. And she drops...to a knee. She lowers her head. Not a word.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral is aware of movement in the underbrush. He's spent centuries roaming the forests of Asgard, seeking adventure and crossing swords with trolls, brigands, horse thieves and brownies intent on the worst kinds of mischief. He keeps his expression nonchalant, however, his body kept loose and relaxed even as he's prepared for action at the split of a hair.

He whirls as she drops, preparing to riposte a potential attack only to find the girl has taken a knee before him. He steps back once, at first anticipating a low attack, perhaps an attempt at his hamstrings, only to realize that attack is not her intent, He lowers his raised blade, settling the point into the grass before her.

"Well now, maiden, hail and well met. You've the stealth of a rogue, but I suspect your heart is far more pure than a simple cutpurse. What might you seek from Fandral the Swift?"

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
Head down, eyes lowered, Rahne lets him decide whether to slay her instantly, or not. If she died, he would not be worthy, after all.

The cross worn on her neck is silver, softly filigreed, and by far the finest thing she wears. She seems simple, and small. Quiet, and yet, honest. And she says to the tips of his shoes, "Please?" as if it is something important.

"Sir, ye be th' swordmaster? Will ye teach someone like meself?"

She hasn't looked up. She won't. This is a belief, and she whispers something like, "God forgive me," so softly it hides to be heard.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral has no intention of slaying her, nor any violent intentions whatsoever. He doesn't particularly enjoy killing at all, much less do it out of some sort of whim.

He crouches down a bit, bending his knees and resting his blade across the top of them, his blonde hair grown long enough almost to reach his shoulders, "I have no requisite for teaching, 'cept that ye be good of heart and willing to learn. If you be evil, you hide it well, for I see no cloven hoof nor orcish cast to your features. A slip of a girl, yes, but not so old as to be unteachable and not so young as to be unable to wield a sword's weight," he says.

"Do you know anything of the blade yet? Why do you seek to learn the path of the sword? Don't most Midgarders prefer your firearms?"

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She lifts her chin, her features unmarked with scars of war. She looks the simple peasant, lacking in makeup or even in the long hair sported by this age's folk. She is, also, Scottish from the accent on her tongue. But a minor difficulty.

"I...am unskilled," she admits, wincing at the failure. She's clearly trying to speak clearly, minimizing the damage done by her mode of speech. "There be a problem with guns. And my life be dangerous enou."

She pauses, then she realizes he's asking why. Why, the important question. The one she's never fully addressed. So she closes her eyes, then speaks.

"Ah be a werewolf." There, that's out. Eyes open, she looks at him to see if that's broken things, and hastily adds, "Ah cannee rely on tha' always! Thaur be times when ah need somethin...graceful. Somethin tha' ah earned."

There's pain in that statement. Something she earned, that she can use to protect herself. Hm.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral benefits from the joys of the Allspeak, meaning that Rahne's accent is no impediment to his understanding, her words tuned to his ears and his to hers, in the manner of the Asgardian people throughout the span of time.

He can see that pain and frowns at it, not in judgment but just in sadness. She's too young, this mortal girl, to have already been given such burdens.

"I have known others with wolves in their blood. Even the Prince of Wolves himself, once upon a time, hath fought by my side in the Shining Realm," he says, rising up again, "Come to your feet and tell me thy name, girl," he says, offering his hand to help her up.

"I know of which you speak, although there is no shame in doing what one needs to do to survive, nor being born different. special. I am special myself, after all, ask any barmaid from here to Odinskeep," he says with a twinkle in his eye.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She didn't expect that.

Well, the understanding was always a possibility. The chance to learn, she still isn't sure that will happen. The idea that he's a bit of a ladies' man...well, he's male, and a god. It was pretty likely.

She didn't expect him to be handsome.

She looks at him, almost missing some of what he says, and takes his hand with a bit of a blush on her freckled cheeks. It's really a good thing that she's been exposed to embarrasment lately, or she'd not have gotten out another word.

"Rahne," she says, her breaths coming out soft. She pronounces it 'Rain', but with a breath in where it's sweet. "Ah be Rahne, o' th' Sinclair clan."

She stands well, but a simple glance would tell problems. Her body is weak, her wrists are undeveloped. She has no callouses, she's never used a blade at all. Her stance is one born of some bit of gymnastics, but even that is weak.

"Ah am prepared tae work hard, sor," she says, her voice firming. "Nothin en life be free."

Fandral has posed:
Fandral detects her strengths and her weaknesses alike. She may not be hardened in the way of the warrior, but she's naturally tough and resilient. She's dedicated and passionate, that's easy enough to read in her eyes. And if she's lovely, too, well, that's all the better. He would never refuse an ugly student, of course, but it is a proper counterpoint to the beauty of fencing done properly.

"Working hard is good, although I play hard, as well. I don't wish to turn it into a drudgery. Swordsmanship is an art, not a dull repetitious chore. I want you to find joy in it. I think, though we are fresh met, that you have need of joy in your life. Luckily for you, Fandral has joy in abundance," he says with a laugh, reaching out to clap her on the sh oulder and moving to walk alongside her.

"Take up the practice blade, then, and we shall begin to work on your stance," he says.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
"Other wolfbloods?" Rahne asks, rising up as quickly as she can. She seems primed to follow orders, to do what an authority says. "Ye know others like m'self?"

The little lady, and with him beside it's clear how little she is, rises to walk. Two steps to his one, she seems to hold back in all things. "Ah...joy?" she asks, uncertain if fun was ever really a part of ..well, anything.

She can think of one topic she enjoys, but making out with someone she likes...not sure how she can work that into being all swishy and stabby. Not without considerable further instruction first.

She catches up, then starts to fall behind again, but soon she's there and holding a blade. A practice blade and thank GOD, because she's about to stab herself in the foot with it.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral nods, "It isn't unknown in Asgard, for creatures between wolf and man to live within the wilds. And I mentioned Hrimhari, the Prince of Wolves, who is their god and leader. Perhaps you are one of his children, much removed by generations and time."

He moves behind her and casually touches, guiding her shoulder to square up, bending her knee, lifting an elbow to the side, "You must keep yourself supple, yet prepared. Swordplay requires dexterity and speed, but if you do not give it structure, you will crumble in your defense,' He says.

"And yes, you are not alone, I am sure. None of us are, truly, no matter how much it may feel so at times."

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
The stance looks good, and it takes as much effort as any other student's stance does to correct. There is nothing magical in it, not yet. She doesn't speak much, preferring to listen. She doesn't distract. Her eyes follow the instruction as much as her ears. And she refrains from stupid slashing and things likely to harm.

For all her words, this -could- be a good student.

"Hrimhari," she says, focusing on the words when it is appropriate. It's like, the name matters somehow. But then it would, to a werewolf. "Ah was taught et was sinful, bein' what ah am."

If so, she's adapted fairly well. There is no evil in this one.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral frowns slightly, "I'll not speak ill of the beliefs of Midgard. All creatures, great and small, make sense of the world in their own way and truths can be quicksilver in the grasp, difficult to hold. But I know I speak true when I say there is nothing inherently bad in being who you are or what you are. 'Sin', as you say, is found only in action, in doing harm, not in merely existing," he says.

He guides her carefully through some of the basics, not teaching her to fight even yet, just getting her used to holding the blade, learning to understand its balance and use its weight to her advantage. "You cannot hope to fend off the blade of another until you learn to use your own, to have it become an extension of yourself. Time and practice, yes, and I understand if it seems too much at first. Patience is a difficult virtue, even for Fandral," he smiles.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She doesn't talk for a bit, though at one point he'd spot her tongue between her teeth as she concentrates hard on what she's doing. It sticks out just the tiniest bit, and she likely isn't aware that she does it. This, a werewolf? This, a being born of sin?

This, a student. She guides the blade with grace, now that it moves in her hands. Awkward grace, but her feet land softly. The earth does not hold her so tight, and one day she'll be able to fly.

"Ah've done some things," she admits, when time permits. But it seems that she has no wish to win that argument, because she adds, "...ah guess everyone has. Naebody be perfect."

Then she has to admit there might be a loophole. Fandral's cheekbones may break that rule. Damn.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral laughs, "I no doubt have my imperfections, although there can be a perfection to be found in imperfection itself, if there is beauty and art even in the way you fall. Learning to fall is, in fact, one of the things we must do. No matter how good you are, sometimes you will be at a disadvantage. Sometimes you must fall back, falld own. Sometimes, even, you must lose. Even Fandral. I have lost, more times than I can count, and I am still among the greatest heroes Asgard has ever known!" he says.

"Learning how to fail can let you turn such things to your own advantage, to make it so that you learn and grow from your defeat and not merely sulk. Don't get me wrong, I don't like to lose and anyone who does is lying."

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She already knows that lesson. The eyes seem to shift, she's uncomfortable. She's been hurt.

"Ah've lost," Rahne murmurs. But she raises her jaw then, she changes. She takes it in stride. "But ah be still here. An ...ugh. Fallin' practice?"

She finally, finally shows some spirit, and if it's to complain? Well, there may be reason.

"Been trainin for five years, all tha' stuff. But et was all as a wolf girl, nae in thes form! Learnin' it all wi' new reflexes be exasperating!" Well, at least she has a basis to start from there. Not a complete beginner?

If she knows the theory, she can work forward. And really, falling IS important.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral nods, "Every discipline is unique. In time, you may learn to combine the training you've had before with what you learn from me. You will develop your own style, your own signature. Perhaps even use some of your wolfen abilities in combination with your sword," he says.

"And while I will no doubt give you a few bruises on your rump from a fall or two - or a dozen - I'm sure you can handle it. Probably better than most."

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
"So, when do ah learn tae dance?" she asks then. Which is a reference to Game of Thrones, she's been reading. It's also likely confusing, but how Fandral will take it is entirely on him.

In her case, she looks light enough that she could be thrown, and a bit of acrobatics...well, let's just say that a dagger might be a useful addition to her arsenal.

Fandral has posed:
Fandral will continue for a couple of hours, teaching some of the earliest basics. He doesn't know the dancing reference, but finds the dancing metaphor apropros. And so the last half hour or so is spent on footwork, leaving the blade aside and doing almost choreography, finding Rahne at least light on her feet and capably athletic.

"You have the physical potential indeed. But then, I have seen a man, one of my best of friends, his body built in the manner of a great onion, equally round and just as fragrant, and he became one of the greatest fighters of his age. HOw much better, then, might you find yourself with time," he winks.