Difference between revisions of "Logs:First Lesson"

True to her 'word,' Alida sent a slightly grumpy (and brooding) Pyrite to Z'kiel to give him the message of her having some free time that evening for their first meet up. Luckily for both blonde and bronzerider, the tiny gold not only had her mate to look after her eggs while she was busy, but also a tasty piece of jerky to reward her 'above and beyond' efforts when she returned to her human. At the stated place and time indicated upon the little scrap of rolled hide (tied in a 'necklace' with a piece of grey yarn about the base of the flit's neck), the bluerider awaits her newest 'pupil,' nobody else in attendance within the workout cavern, this late. Alida is finishing up her warm-up session with a jump-rope, her skin giving off a hint of gleam in places from the faint sweat of effort. She's clad in undyed workout half-pants and a dingy-white tank-top, tied-on canvas shoes of similar, drab coloration. Upon one of the long benches, Pyrite sits, tucking into her small strip of jerky with churrs of relish.

At the very least, Pyrite was welcomed warmly enough - which is to say, she was given a scrap of jerky as thanks before Z'kiel carefully took the note. Lucky, lucky firelizard, indeed. The bronzerider arrives promptly - a little early, as is his tendency, but mostly to make sure he's well-prepared. He wears a loose-fitting tank top, equally loose-fitting workout pants that cinch at the waist, wraps on his feet, and naught else. His shoes and the rest of his things are stowed just inside the entrance of the chamber, safely off to a side where they'll be left alone. He's not the sort to stop and stare; there's a reptilian analysis of her while she jumps rope and then a clearing of his throat, which might be wholly unnecessary to announce his presence - but does well to signify his readiness to begin.

The little minx gets *two* treats? Lucky-ducky Pyrite, indeed, and she's just smart enough to not let on that she got yums from Z'kiel...who received a quick rub of the queen's head to his hand before she tore into *his* offering. As it should be. Now gorging herself to her heart's content, the tiny gold gives a sweet chirrup out to the tunnel that leads into this place, her senses keener than her human's. Alerted by her 'early warning system,' Alida slows, then stops her skipping, flings the rope far-aside as she observes Z'kiel in return, likewise fashion. "Warmed up, yet?" comes the woman's clipped alto after her small nod. When answered, she'll tack on a low, "Tell me everything ya know." Beat, smirk. "All relevant self-defense, offensive things ya know. Don't leave out anything."

"Some bodyweight stuff." Not much - or, at least, not enough to bring a sweat-sheen to his scarred self. So, while she starts to lay out her questions, the once Igenite goes to get properly warmed up in his way - slow, calculated stretches and twists that will, eventually, lead into a sort of dance routine. "Fought some with my brother," is truth, but also offered purely for completion. "Father, too. Got into some scuffles early on. Got better at fighting later. Sometimes had to fight what I was hunting. Not all kills went down easy." The twisting and stretching shifts to undulations and contractions that set muscle straining visibly beneath skin. "Did some guard work for traders." Grunt. "Ugly work. Got good enough that I didn't get hurt every time there was trouble." A pause. A breath. A huff. "Training here during weyrlinghood."

Quietly pleased that she doesn't have to 'bother' instructing Z'kiel in how to properly stretch and loosen up, Alida settles for nodding again, the woman then shaking out her limbs and moving over to Pyrite's bench to nab up a towel and blot perspiration off her pale skin. If her eyes more-than-occasionally peer over to Zak and his exhertions, there's nothing more apparent within them besides curiosity and a certain pleasure in another's physical effort and prowess. "Okay," is murmured after the bronzerider's done answering, Alida in no particular hurry as she drops her towel back to bench, and moves over a few more steps to offer her finishing-up pet a fingerstoke upon neck. Churrrr. That reward-time over, the blonde then makes her way over to the near wall which holds thick mats hanging upon some spikes driven deep into the rock. Soon enough, she's wrestling the large, unwieldy things down - a pair of them, in fact - and not exherting too much effort dragging the things to the open center of the cavern. Thump! While engaged in her own actions, the bluie notes in a voice just loud enough to carry, "When yer done, we'll meet here." On the mats. "Wan'cha ta come at me in "sparrin'" fashion, first. Use whatever techniques ya feel like." She appears to 'trust' Zak that he understands the difference between 'spar' and 'for real.'

He's no stranger to this side of things, at least; the motions might not look especially strenuous on their own, but there's clearly a considerable amount of control in play. Z'kiel's done only when he finally breaks out into a light sweat - a sweat that he'll clean off with a towel that he's had the forethought to toss on a nearby bench. He watches Alida lug the mats out, but won't interrupt that process; she knows what she's doing. He pads over once things are set up, his bare feet quiet on the floor. It's a small thing, really, but entirely unconscious - much like that predatory sense about him. Hnnnh is all he has to 'say' to her challenge, such as it is, and the bronzerider nods only once before he takes up a boxer's stance - it's comfortable and easy to maneuver in, if nothing else, and once she's ready, he starts in with a couple of jabs and feints to test the water, so to speak.

As Zak heads over, Alida makes one more small change - plucking off her own canvas shoes and tossing them in the same direction the bench lies in. Luckily, Pyrite's already gone - finished with her treat(s) and Betweening back to 'her' weyr and the basket of eggs within - so the skidding thumps of the footwear can't bother her. Barefooted, she joins Z'kiel on the mats in near-silence, quietly watching him process, seeing how his body moves before they engage. As it is, when he strikes that boxing stance, she does so as well, though it's not a 'traditional' one in enough respects. A bob of plaited head has the woman reacting like freshly-oiled clockworks to Zak's jabs, feints, her strong and dextrous form ducking and weaving when necessary, easily avoiding the blows, though his reach is longer than hers. After some longer seconds of this: his actions, her avoidance, her clipped, tighter voice whooshes out a quick, "Now *you* avoid mine." This is her only warning between a switch from defense to offense, the motions again as smooth as glass. Her almost-hits - this being sparring, after all - are a study in lightning-fast reactions that tend to strike and retreat, batter and bob.

He moves fluidly - and perhaps more quickly than one might expect. But this is a sparring match and there is no raw sense of ferocity to his attacks. They're testing. Probing. And, gauging by her reactions, perhaps all is as it should be. Z'kiel grunts once to the change in plans, dips his chin, and adjusts his stance to suit in that split second between the end of his assault and the start of hers. What he lacks in skill he mostly makes up for in natural speed and dexterity; he's able to twist and move out of the way of most of her blows, though the near hits would be more likely to hit his forearms than his midsection. And, all the while, he's watching. Studying. Narrowed eyes and muted hisses of breath with every strike she makes - regardless of whether it lands or not, that expulsion of breath is there - are coupled with serpentine movements that flow rather than jerk. The one thing he absolutely has on his side is endurance; he'll keep up (though he'll take his fair share of would-be-blows) for as long as she intends to lay into him.

She's studying even while engaged, Alida noting Z'kiel's fluidity and grace with flashes of keen, green eyes as she hammers, darts, and 'dances' around with him. Noted between motions, and in puffed out, yet controlled breaths, "Yer smooth. Dance well." The praise is factual, not meant to stroke egos...and rather rare from this person, though Zak might not know that. Their traded-role of attacker and attackee is kept up for only a couple minutes or so, until Alida skitters backwards, holds up one hand in clear signal to stop. Huff-puff. As they get their breaths back, the bluie intones quietly, "Now...the ugly shit." Beat. "Whether ya learned it formally, 'r via the craft uv' hard knocks, I wanna see the down-an'-dirty stuff ya know how ta pull." Clear green eyes are locked firmly to the bronzer's own greens, and hold nothing but seriousness. "Again, this is a spar...but this round, I'm gonna letcha' tag me, on purpose, if I feel I c'n handle it." Yes. "Bruises 're fine. Yer doin' nothin' ta injure, maim, kill." Stated because this is fucking "important." "I'll fall, give, cushion whenever I need ta." 'Trust her,' she seems to be subtly asking. "You c'n stop whenever ya want, 'r if I need ya to. Signal's this..." and here the blonde simply holds up an outward-facing palm flat upon the air. Blink. "Feel okay about this?"

Nor is the observation taken as praise; it's just met with a different caliber of grunt - acknowledging, mostly - that's easily made between the trading of blocks for blows. When she calls for a break, though, Zak'll take it - if a bit grudgingly, gauging from the way his arms remain up and ready for another round. His arms drop all the same, just a beat later than they should. He sucks his teeth while he listens but even before she's reached the end, he's slowly shaking his head, forehead furrowed deeply. His eyes will meet and hold with hers, but there's something cold and nasty in those eyes of his, something that flickers and is suppressed swiftly. "No," is grated out after a moment, his voice still just a bit ragged from catching his breath. "The ugly shit is supposed to do that. Maim. Kill. Worse. Can't pull it back. Not like fighting." And there's evidently a difference there, if only to his understanding; there's fighting and then there's the other shit and never the twain shall meet. "Don't figure I'd be able to hurt you if you didn't want it," is honest enough. "But it's not just to hurt." And there might be something else there, too; something briefly caught in that earlier glimmer. A fear - something elusive and unpleasant - but one that's slithering just Nor is the observation taken as praise; it's just met with a different caliber of grunt - acknowledging, mostly - that's easily made between the trading of blocks for blows. When she calls for a break, though, Zak'll take it - if a bit grudgingly, gauging from the way his arms remain up and ready for another round. His arms drop all the same, just a beat later than they should. He sucks his teeth while he listens but even before she's reached the end, he's slowly shaking his head, forehead furrowed deeply. His eyes will meet and hold with hers, but there's something cold and nasty in those eyes of his, something that flickers and is suppressed swiftly. "No," is grated out after a moment, his voice still just a bit ragged from catching his breath. "The ugly shit is supposed to do that. Maim. Kill. Worse. Can't pull it back. Not like fighting." And there's evidently a difference there, if only to his understanding; there's fighting and then there's the other shit and never the twain shall meet. "Don't figure I'd be able to hurt you if you didn't want it," is honest enough. "But it's not just to hurt." And there might be something else there, too; something briefly caught in that earlier glimmer. A fear - something elusive and unpleasant - but one that's slithering just under the surface, all the same.

Alida notes that slow letting down of his guard with a faint nod, a slightly nasty hint of a smirk. "Best ta keep it that way. Never know when someone's lyin'." About stopping a fight. And then keen greens notice not only that head shaking, but the young man's hints of hesitation...and even that nuance of fear behind his eyes. Damned guard. She wasn't fully ready for that reaction from him, still, and - after some moments to fully parse what's being traded between them - his reaction finds her studying his face intently as she speaks. "Even guards get caught off-balance, sometimes..." is a response for him not being able to tag her unless she wanted. "Not often, mind ya. But..." Smirk. She's back to nothing but serious again in a twinkling, then, pale head gravely nodding again in understanding. "As ya wish, but..." But? "I need ya ta tell me about 'em...all those dirty tactics ya know. I promise yeh, ya won't surprise me, disgust me, whatever." Has she truly heard, seen, done enough ugly things in her life to be inured to bad reactions? It's only after Zak's answered fully, and she's had time to further parse that her soft, still firm voice notes, "Y've hurt...badly, before. Maybe even killed."

Hnnnh. Z'kiel remains tense, even if his defenses appear to be down for the time being. The physical defenses, anyway; the mental ones are another story entirely. His expression is somewhat sour and dark, though it eases up a little when there's no demand to press the issue. He's silent for a little while after she's finished; in that time he works out the kinks in his hands and does a couple of calf-raises just to keep the blood flowing. Eventually: "Wouldn't want to catch you off your feet. Wouldn't-" but there's no need to finish that and he snorts, shakes his head, and picks up with a much more familiar, rasping tone, "Some is just breaking what I get my hands on. Fingers. Ribs. Elbows. Hard to do that one, but." It can be done. "Depends on the position. The situation." A breath is drawn. Held. Released in a steadying flow. "Eye gouges, breaking noses, crushing throats, ear claps, choking," that's all standard fare and he knows it, pushing past to, "Pulling jaws out of place. Catch fingers just here," he taps on the teeth in his lower jaw. "Hook under the tongue. Pull." A shoulder rises. Falls. And, yet, even that motion is stiff. Tense. The fluidity is arrested. "Probably doesn't hurt as much as the other thing I've seen done. Face down. Bite a stick. Kick to the back of the head." Not him, that; the memory sends a fine wash of gooseflesh over his arms. The last bit, the noting, that's only answered with a nod - and no clarification or elaboration.

"I'll try not ta le'cha..." Alida intones with dryest humor, her mouth twitching a little. For one with a history of pressing...well, she's apparently not going to, at least right now, the blonde doing some of her own limbering motions to keep her body ready while they talk. The bronzerider's recitations of his knowledge of 'dirty work' meet with minimal reactions from the bluie, faint nods, gutteral little sounds of understanding, faint lip-purses. Perhaps to make him feel less isolated, or perhaps for other reasons entirely, the very-serious looking woman grunts a quiet, "Stomp an instep, crush a kneecap, punch a kidney..." Those last couple of 'methods,' however, do earn Z'kiel - for the first - a small raise of one brow, and the second a frown between brows for a moment. "Still got all yer fingers, I see." That is noted for the former... the latter finally making the woman shake her head once. *Very* nasty. "Y' ever work with anything more than hunter's tools, before? Bow an' arrows, net, spear, knives an' such?" Blink. "Even been on the receivin' end uv' anything beyond a fist 'r club?"

And he'll nod along to the others; the instep, the kneecap, the kidney. All fine ways to drop a person or make them suffer. But then there's that raising of her eyebrow, no matter how slight. "Pull hard. Pull fast." Z'kiel lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers, though faint scars might be spotted on the knuckles, buried beneath the burns. "Almost lost one." The ring finger, which is twitched and appears slightly off - broken, maybe, or badly dislocated and even more badly healed. "The other-" he just shakes his head, features twisted up a little. "There's ugly and then there's that. Broken teeth. Broken jaw. All bad." And it's there, in his head, a nasty little poisoned memory. So when it comes to weapons, he'll move on with gratitude, unspoken though it is. "Mostly those. Sometimes weights here," he taps his palm, just below his fingers. "Heavier hits with those. Prefer to barehand it if it's a fight." And the last? A barked sound, nearly laughter, and he turns just enough to allow him to point to a few places on his back and side, "Knives. Plenty of those. Mostly shallow. Not all." The one on his side, near his ribs, is tapped demonstratively.

"I'll keep it in mind, in case uv' emergency." And Alida can honestly speak that flatly and "mean" it. His wayward finger is given a solid going over by intent greens, though they soon rise again to take in the man's own gaze as he speaks further of that latter 'dirty trick.' She seems about to speak further on that travesty - the blonde looking a little fascinated in clinical fashion - and then snaps her trap shut just as Zak moves past it. Maybe Alida *is* starting to learn a little restraint. Zak's further words of weaponry evince the woman's own soft 'mmm' of sound, her gaze flicking to the various portions of himself that he points out as having been 'tagged' in the past, his 'laugh' earning him a thin and knowing slice of a smirk. Finally offered back, and rather quietly at that, is her "I don' teach everyday people" 'Not-guards' "things about weaponry...fer good reasons." She's back to complete seriousness, again, with an added under-current of something that might seem like formal solemnity. "Beyond what we all learned in Weyrlinghood...wha'daya know how ta do with a knife?" Beat. "Not only a belt-knife... A *real* one." By this time, she's lapsing into some motion again, her body not obliging to keeping still, anymore...Alida slowly stepping back and forth across the mats in almost feline fashion.

There will, no doubt, be other times to explore such horrific things; other times when he's not trying to work himself down from a palpable edge. Z'kiel is still in motion of a sort, slow calf-raises and flexes of fingers or slight side-to-side shifts of his torso that reflect a curious degree of control over his midsection. "Wise of you," says he. "Most people can't handle their fists. Best not give them something to gut themselves on." Matter-of-fact. Deadpan. Just like his next words: "Skinning. Disemboweling." That's a new word, gauging from the way he carefully goes over it. And when she starts to move, he does; it's as if some measure of permission was granted and he takes it. For now, it's just a mirror of her movements, but it's enough to start working the sharpest part of his energy out. "Haven't used one on a person," is a further admission. "Just on animals."

That control over his midsection gets more of Alida's concentration as Z'kiel 'works it,' the blonde slightly fascinated by such, and even alluding to it in a clipped and curious, "Comes from yer dancin'..." Right? After a few moments of silence, "I do lots uv' stuff ta stay limber, in shape... took up this thing called 'yoga'" *smirk* "after I talked to a Healer. Incredible stuff fer makin' one flexible." If Alida notices that 'edge' on Zak (rather likely), she doesn't make any comment about such, the blonde merely nodding about training limitations as she continues to listen to the bronzerider. As they move in tandem to work off their 'steam,' a low grunt issues from the bluie's throat, and she rather suddenly steps off the mats towards where her gear is stowed along one wall. Give her some moments to fish around inside a heavily-wrapped bundle, and she's soon returning with two pairs of matched, wooden knives in her hands. One pair is the same heft and size of a standard beltknife, while the other pair are more like the pig-stickers she tends to carry. All are of excellent craftsmanship, with rounded/blunted ends, and show some scarring in places. After setting her burdens down - except for the wooden belt knife stand-ins - at the side of one of the mats - the woman steps up smoothly towards Z'kiel again, offers him one of the mock-weapons hilt-first. "Same as before: bruises 'r fine, but nothin' that'll take either uv' us out uv' commission in any way."

"Yeah," is huffed out in agreement. Z'kiel explains a few moments later, "Have to be aware of your body. What it's doing. What it's capable of. A lot of people don't think about where their hands are; what their stomach's doing. Can't lose track of any of it when you're on stage." The side to side shifts slide into serpentine up-down undulations. Slow. Measured. His head tilts at the mention of yoga. "That. What is that? Yoga?" Color him intrigued. He'll not delve too deeply into it just yet, though; not when the bluerider moves away to collect that pair of knives. He maintains his sequence of slow, tightly controlled motions, but his interest shifts to the weapons of her choosing. He sucks his teeth, eyes narrowed a little at the offerings. As the wooden, mock belt knife is held out to him, he closes his fingers around it - but doesn't remove it right away. Eyes meet, or seek to, and he issues a low noise, a not-quite-grunt. "Got it." And he'll take the weapon once it's released - and step into a defensive stance for the moment. Just to get his thoughts together. Just to prepare.

As she's moving to get those mock-weapons, bringing them back, Alida replies, "Thought it sounded ridiculous...at first." Smirk. "It's a way uv' stretchin', limbering yer body...an' clearin', focusing the mind." Grunt. "It *works*...but it ain't as easy as it c'n look. I'll never be anywhere as good as the Healer who introduced me to it - *she's* been doin' it fer over twenty Turns - but after a Turn an' a half puttin' in my time... I'm more flexible, balanced, 'solid' than before." After looking at more of those wave-like motions of Zak's abdomen, the bluie quietly notes, "You show me yers, I'll show you mine." A flash of white teeth in a broad grin is soon abandoned in favor of those wooden knives, the blonde nodding firmly to her erstwhile opponent, and stepping backwards while adopting her own defensive stance. Did he expect her to immediately attack? If so, he'll be waiting.

'Hnnnh. Aloud: "After." It's a promise. Tit for tat. For the moment, in the here and now, Z'kiel is in that posture only long enough to get his head together; then he's moving, calculated and quick, but cautious, too. The weapon lends a wariness that wasn't there before; he respects the thing in his hand. Not the wood itself, but the symbol of what it is - what it could be. His attacks speak clearly of that caution; blows aren't precisely pulled - rather, they just aren't extended as sharply in the first place. He attacks with it with markedly less frequency, relying more on watching her for what few weak moments he might find - or feinting to try to draw something out and make an opening. His free hand serves two roles; to keep his balance in whatever moves he makes - and to occasionally strike, when the knife is otherwise engaged. That he's graceful at it is a side effect of his other training; it makes the not-goodness look only slightly less not-good.

Exactly what she wants to see: someone with the 'brains' to not only wield their weapon properly, but show the proper respect for it...for what it represents. Another, if smaller bob of Alida's pale head is followed by her swift, precise, skilled reactions to Z'kiel's 'attacks,' each defense enacted showing years of training that has become absolute second nature to the woman. Her own free hand functions much as his own: balance and (in her case) defense, slapping away Zak's own extremity, even parrying it rather like the 'weapon' in her other hand. She allows them to continue this way for about 3 minutes before visually and vocally signaling that they 'break,' Alida lowering her wooden training weapon slowly, clear green eyes observing her 'student' intently...her guard not truly down. As they puff and recover, she notes dryly, "Not too bad. Definitely better than the standard-issue weyrling fare." Just the facts, ma'am. But, instead of wiping the faint hints of perspiration from her brow, the bluerider notes briskly, "Now, off hand. The same." She also changes up weapon hands, following the bronzer's own move, then dropping into a defensive crouch.

It's a result that's to be expected - but Z'kiel doesn't show any signs of irritation or frustration. He's watching as much as he's attacking. Studying. Learning. And if he picks up a few bruises for his trouble, all the better; reminders of what he did both right and wrong. The end doesn't come soon enough - though, some part of him balks that it comes too soon. That's the part he suppresses for the time being, a huff of breath escaping him when the break is called. His guard remains up as well, even if he's the one on the offensive; predatory and prepared. Just in case. There's a grunt of acknowledgement for her words, a nod, and another sharp exhalation that seems to be an audible version of shaking things out. And though there's a knitting of his sweat-sheened brow, there is no protest at the next instruction. Off hand it is - and all the clumsiness that comes with it. Caution from before manifests anew, but altered; he might have done his share of fighting off-handed in the past, but it doesn't translate at all to weapon-oriented combat. Boxing is probably one thing; this is an entirely different animal. To his credit, his expression remains a thing of grim neutrality - but she, more than anyone, will be able to pick up the internalized frustration at his own awkwardness as he steps in to make his attacks.

Learning: it's key to so much. Pleased to see that Z'kiel's not simply a brainless 'clubbing machine' (like too many think of *her*), Alida shifts her form to present the least amount of target possible as the man engages her...and proceeds to use her forearms even more than that knife in her off hand. Oh, 'blade' meets 'blade,' alright, but the blonde's natural weaponry is used (along with her lower body) to deflect, bump, shove away his unwieldy wielding hand as much as possible. Her own reactions are not as awkward as his own, but they show her to indeed be working with her off hand, though the woman's features show only determination the entire time. This time, she allows them to spar longer - 5 minutes, enough to work up a sound sweat as body-work becomes just as important as knife-work - then calling a halt, again. Huff-puff.

Not that he has any immediate sense of her slight offness when on her off-hand; that will come later, when he replays the sparring match in his head. What contact is made is solid; if he can sneak in a hit with his free hand, he certainly will. And with lower body blocks worked in, he steps things up a little with a scant handful of similar strikes. Z'kiel is, at least, determined to see this through, even if he has to fight the drip of sweat in his eyes and his less-than-certain grip on the weapon. The longer it goes on, the more sure he gets - which isn't terribly certain, but it's more than it was. Towards the end, his tenaciousness persists and his strikes actually increase in frequency, though they lose out on accuracy. Bit by bit. And then the break is called and he lowers his weapon - slightly - and eases into a defensive stance again, prepared more to use his forearms than the weapon itself from the way he holds it. Still. There's breath to be caught and he does that, one eye squinching shut against a rogue bead of sweat that decides, hey, this seems like a perfectly good place to hang out.

When he appears to want to continue after the called break, Alida shakes her head firmly, steps back smoothly - more crab-stepping, really - and 'sheathes' her wooden blade in one deep pocket. All along, green eyes watch Zak intently, noting every shift, twitch, motion. Like him, she'll have some pretty bruises in no time at all, but the blonde appears to not even notice her small pains. "Relax; that's an order." It comes out firm, but not harsh, the bluie waiting to make certain Z'kiel steps out of that special mental place enough to allow both of them to recoup...which she'll do if *he* does, the woman moving to grab up a towel from one bench, and blot the sweat from her face, neck.

There. That. With the order given, Z'kiel's demeanor shifts almost immediately; his hold on the knife shifts into something closer to how cooks carry their knives in the kitchen. Blade pointing down, the "sharp" part facing back and away. Tension bleeds out to leave him loose - relatively speaking, anyway. A nod is signal enough that he heard her, but there's a rasped, "Done," to confirm the deed is, indeed, done. The knife eventually finds a home with the others at the edge of the mat for now; more pressing is getting a good toweling off and a drink of water. A good, long drink of water. Eventually: "... need to get a bandana."

A quirk of head shows Alida's obvious interest in how Z'kiel reacts to her 'order,' the blonde murmuring a thoughtful, "You get any guard trainin' at all; even informal?" through her puffs for breath. As they both move to dash off the sweat, and indeed get rehydrated, the bluie at first grunts, then pointely looks up to the bronzerider's bare head before noting with some wry humor, "Just grow back sum' hair." Her own, lightly-feathered bangs have held back a decent part of what perspiration was on her forehead. Puff, peer. "Why the total shave, still?"

"Some." A shoulder rises in a lopsided shrug. "Had to protect the dancers from time to time. Sometimes had to help others. So. Learned a little from the guards." Z'kiel's mouth pulls to a side in a wry half-smile. "Not enough." Apparently. He pushes the towel over his head in a final pass and pauses in mid-motion to angle a sidelong look Alida's way. "Nah. Just going to see if Edyis's sisters can make something that'll work to catch it." He finally finishes the toweling down and drapes it over his shoulders, his expression settled into neutrality - if of the teeth-sucking sort. Thoughtful. Silent. Then: "Easier." A beat. "And it itches worse that Ahtzudaeth's hide when it does start growing in. Can't stand it." A thin shudder trips down his spine at that, unbidden as it is.

"It shows..." Alida notes in slightly-pleased fashion. As for his follow-up comment, "It's a ...demandin' craft." That hasn't ever been a formal craft at all. The woman seemed ready to use another word instead of 'demanding,' but her hesitation was small, though her mouth sets in a temporary, harder line. As for Ed's sisters, there's a faintly surprised look over at the bronzerider, and a casual, "You two friends?" Beat. "Sometimes a weyrlin' class' members'll remain tight." Unlike she did with any of her own. As for itching, there's a wrinkle of nose and a quick nod, followed by another deep draught of water. Apparently she's had experience, somehow, with that particular irritation. Once the both of them appear to have recovered from their intense little spar, the bluerider ambles slowly over back to the mats, unpockets her wooden blade, and sets it beside the others, hefting both of the practice 'hunting' blades in each hand...visually weighing them as she does physically, as well.

"It's hard, ugly work, from what I've seen of it," Z'kiel replies and tips his head back for a moment to study the ceiling. "Have a lot of respect for the guards. Always have." The towel remains where it is for the time being, with the ends loosely knotted in his hands. There's a slight lift of an eyebrow in response to that equally slight surprise. "Something like that. Her sisters made me some hats. I gave her all my beads for her hair." They're no good for him, after all. It's the latter note that elicits a mild, "Didn't stay on too much with most of the others. Happens, I guess." The towel is shed only when Alida crosses back to the mats; he folds it neatly and drops it onto a bench while he watches her go through the weighing and studying of them. Silent, now. Just watching.

"Yeah..." is Alida's own monosyllabic reply, something rather grim in her eyes before they shift the conversation again. "Young woman's got quite a family, apparently..." is noted briskly, the blonde's shoulders shrugging slightly. Blink. "Don't tr...er, gypsy an' Igen caravan families make a lot uv' their hair...beads 'n ribbons, stuff like that?" She's still hefting the blades in her hands, though the bluie finally stands up straight.

"Good that she has them." Z'kiel leaves that as it is, while the conversation continues along this new line. Back to some calf raises for him, if only to keep himself moving and keep the blood up, as it were. "Most do, yeah," he replies. "Inherited most of mine - the beads and charms. The ribbons were all mine. Know a few traders willing to make nice charms. Can make some out of teeth and horn. They're rough, but they do the job." Whatever that might be. Shoulders roll - forward and back - in slow circles to work out the kinks. He's watching and waiting - but without a weighty sense of anticipation. For once.

Listening, sometimes glancing over at Z'kiel, Alida bobs her plaited head a few times, and finally offers out one of those wooden blades to the man, again, hilt-first. When she speaks again, it's all business. "We switch, this time. But... mix it up, on occasion." Beat. "Like a real fight. Take the offensive when ya think ya have an opening. Otherwise, defensive." Again, since this is a spar, the bluie steps backwards and awaits his confirmation before she moves in.

The blade is taken - and it's right back to business for the former Igenite. Like a shade has been pulled, or some switch flipped. Z'kiel shifts his grip on the handle, but won't take it until he's given his confirmation in the form of "Got it." A shallow duck of his chin follows - and, as she steps back, he takes a defensive posture. Readiness returns easily, instinctively. But, this time, he will wait for her to make that first move - to assess her moves, her manner, and everything else with a near-clinical awareness.

"Ready..." the blonde clips off dully...and doesn't dart in. Instead, Alida circles her 'prey' - a dull glint noticable in her eyes - lightly waving her 'blade' before her in complex little designs upon the air between them. In the middle of one of those traceries, the knife's rounded tip flicks out like a stiking serpent, seeking to connect with skin in a slicing motion just before she's dancing back out, again, half-spinning to the right. She's fast, light on her feet, and cautious of Zak's greater reach and step the whole time, flurries of cuts aimed at whatever opportunity presents itself, no matter where.

He'll not let her get behind him; not enough that he can't quickly adjust for, in any case. Z'kiel does have height and range in his favor and he uses it, every bit of it. The dancing of that 'knife' is seen for what it is and he focuses, instead, on her arm, her feet, her form - until she strikes. He's able to twist out of the way of that one, no effort made to deflect; instead, he dances to a side and retaliates with a quick strike that might - at best - have lead to a glancing blow if it makes any kind of contact. She strikes in a flurry; he's slower, more deliberate. Measured. A little more confident than before, but that does little to make up for a lack of experience. More of her blows are deflected with a forearm or, occasionally, a shin, than they are by his knife. If he can parry, he will; but, it seems, he's just as likely to take the hit directly if he can't skirt out of range.

Those hits, when they score, are well-measured things, much of their force blunted, withheld. There'll be a few bruises, of course, but nothing truly painful. And Zak's more deliberate blows? One of them does land by dint of the bluie trying to confuse him again, and thus taking a bit too long to dance aside. A grunt is followed by a steely look flooding the woman's eyes, and she slightly ups the intensity of their spar...silently nodding to Z'kiel on occasion, then finally grunting out, "Target uv' opportunity, now. Whatever suits, defensive 'r offensive." Her own smaller feet seek to strike almost as often as her hands, now, and elbows, knees are added into the mix, though never does the guard go for low blows or disabling ones. No groins, no eyes or ears, no throats or stunning blows, as they agreed upon.

There's no time to revel in the small victory of a landed hit; Z'kiel's too focused on not bleeding out - so to speak. Each hit landed on him is mentally noted; that much is apparent in his steadily hardening features. Her grunt is met with an answering one of his own, grit added to grimness and a brief, if toothy and savage, smile escapes. Then it's time to up the game - and he does, switching the wooden weapon to his off hand, but keeping his stance as it is. Easier to fight that way; easier to deflect her blows with the knife-hand, if need be. His feet aim low - for ankles and insteps - in lieu of going the higher - and dirtier - route. He's keeping to the rules of the game, but it's difficult; at least once, he'll have to shift his attack to correct himself, a corrective misstept that will present at fine opportunity to strike.

As Z'kiel becomes more gritty, Alida does, as well, that savage little smile of his meeting up with a wolfish snarl-grin of her own. Not in over 4 Turns has she sparred with another Weyr resident who has presented more than standard fighting competence...and the woman is apparently enjoying it quite a bit. It becomes almost a kind of dance for her: the exchange of blows, the flurries of testing and weaving about one another, the flashes of wooden knives and lashings of limbs, extremities. The sound of their breathing and blows, the firm give of the mat underfoot...the smell of sweat; all of it is a kind of mantra in the blonde's brain, and the battle-fire she rarely allows herself to feel begins to ignite in her belly, a warmth that flushes the woman's cheeks a low pink. Her attempts, honest strikes become firmer, though they're attempted less often, and on occasion, when Zak lands one, it sparks quick study and soon 'retaliation.'

It's all a dance - especially to him. Even if Z'kiel doesn't know all the moves to this one, he's adaptive. Quick. He'll take the harder hits with a sharp exhalation just before they land; easier to take them that way, perhaps. Keeps him focused. The shift of that dance does not go unnoticed - and as things transition to that half-step past a comfortable sparring match and into something a touch more serious, he moves with it. Sharply huffed breaths; the smack of wood on wood or skin on skin. The savage smile from before manifests again, with a slight, feral, curving of his upper lip. It's a dangerous dance, all in all, and when he does land something, there's that constant need to check himself before he pulls from his ugly bag of tricks. It's a good thing, then, that she lands more blows than he; that he's more often on the defensive than pressing an offensive. This time, anyway.

Perhaps there's one way they differ in 'dancing'/fighting: though Alida is now 'into' this, there's almost always a part of her brain that's a large step 'aside' from the pure killing portion. It's the portion that was preserved by her teachers to keep her 'human,' to keep her able to co-exist 'peacefully' in a community, when her skills and mindset might cause undue fear or tension. It's this part of the bluerider that analyzes Zak's feral expression - even as her own mouth flashes a wicked grin in return - her own blows remaining measured and fully controlled without conscious application of will. Is there something like joy behind clear green eyes as the bluerider's moves become almost purely ecomonical, her motions minimal and mostly direct even as they focus more and more on key places that would become killing blows if this were real?

She's efficient. Controlled. And he is, too - just in a different way. What Z'kiel has is somewhat trained, but not refined; still animalistic and predatory, rather than geared toward clean movements - clean kills. It's the part of him that will take a few hits if that means he can get one of his own in - through brute force tempered with fluidity of movement and serpentine speed. Would he be dead by now? Most likely - but not without landing something of his own for her to remember him by. Maybe he'd be left without an arm. Without two, possibly - but, from the look on his face, it's entirely possible that he'd still come after her with teeth. The trouble is that it's not that kind of fight and baring his teeth is as far as he gets; as close as he comes to what really drives him. The part that Ahtzudaeth can't quite touch. How many more hits will he take? As many as she's willing to give, perhaps.

Joy/battle/pleasure/excitement! Controlled in this situation, yes, by Alida's Turns of brutal training, but... But, at her own heart, she too is rather 'animalistic,' and her reponses to Z'kiel might show this: soft little snarls, flushed skin, leaping heart. For her own lifemate, *this* is the part of his human that he is most enflamed by; Ilicaeth sensing it from the first upon scorching sands when he chose her. Passion. A fire hot enough to burn stone and metal to slag. Blade to blade, thew to thew...teeth, nails and whatever else she might have on her...all their promises are offered within those green eyes as they track every relevant motion and movement Zak makes. She's built for the long haul, and it shows in the control of her breathing, in the springy motions of feet, limbs, hands as they strike out, defend, parry and riposte. If anyone were to happen upon them, right now, they likely would think this was 'real'...except for the lack of dragons roaring, and the lack of steel flashing. Outside, on the Rim, Ilicaeth's wings mantle and rustle, his blue gaze flecked here and there with orange...his tail lashing, claws flexing into rock.

It's a fine match - what he lacks in outright skill is made up for, in some measure, by determination and raw stubbornness. Z'kiel's still quick - and he has endurance to spare, enough to keep this devilish dervish of a dance going for some time. Eyes narrowed against the dripping of sweat, breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts; the audible huff before a blow lands, to rob it of the worst of its impact. Somewhere, Ahtzudaeth looks up with all the seeming of one who is finally pulling his head out of an enthralling book; his focus shifts inwards and there is, then, the strong sense of a beast who is simply studying what's transpiring in the heart and mind of the man. Amusement takes him, rather than the raw, heated energies that course through his rider; cool and analytical, the bronze is simply aware. The fight - blows exchanged for blows, with some skin showing scratches now with the inclusion of the occasional rake of nails - begins to shift again. Closer. Tighter. Hotter - in the literal sense, with both bodies shining with sweat and exchanging heated breath with heated blows. It's fierce and dangerous and he all but basks in it. There's a purpose to the tightening of proximity, one that Alida will readily be able to discern; his feet are quickly working to pick out where her steps might be weak or off-balance, with all-but-telegraphed intentions to send her to the mat.

She's wanting to bring him to the edge...of his rawness, without pushing him over into true savageness. Nearly everyone is capable of that, unvarnished. But controlling the 'beast' within...that's the ticket. Her own skin almost literally glistens with the perspiration of effort and concentration, 'lida's body 'giving' a little when Zak manages to glance or even land one of his own blows. A tiny bit of blood? That's more than acceptable for the intensity of this 'workout,' small gouges of her own nails prickling the bronzerider's own flesh, here and there...mirroring the same on her paler skin. As he closes, Alida allows the taller man tighter into her territory, too-lucid eyes flicking everywhere to take in the lay of Z'kiel's 'land,' noting that firm intent to put her down. It looks as if she's going to come at him with her knife-occupied, right fist quite suddenly, the move looking to land square in his solar plexus, if her body is telegraphing the motion properly. If she's pulling the slice/punch any, it's hard to tell, given the intent/intensity of her body's motion. And, not even a quarter-way into the motion - *that's* when the knife suddenly switches hands. There's no fumbling or hesitation, her shift cool and sure - right to left - the move of a professional. Her former feint abandoned, Alida's fake-'off'-hand - solid wood within - seeks to offer Zak's core a bruise it likely won't forget, her efforts calling out a low bark of sound from the woman.

He's there - but it's tenuous, that grip. Shaky. How long can he hold it? A while, maybe; maybe not. Z'kiel, for that time, is fixed on a course of action that's liable - no, due - to be changed no sooner than he tries to enact it. So he presses in. He telegraphs. And she telegraphs, which takes a moment to register as wrong to his mind. Just a moment - but it's a moment too long. He's ready for a hit to the midsection, barking out a breath pre-emptively to ensure that the wind isn't knocked out of him. And then there's a switch. A shift. Revelation. His core is hard and ready; it'll take the hit - but the hit will knock the half-breath he took in those split seconds before it landed. The bruise will, in its time, swallow up a smattering of small scars there, including one that might have been an old stab from turns ago. The bark turns into a slow hiss of a laugh and the fight is done - not out of pain, not because of the bruise-that-will be, but because that's the last blow she would need to end it.

In the end, it was a bit of 'dirty' fighting that scored the blow, but it was still backed mostly by prowess. Alida's not one to rub it in - Zak's no enemy, after all - and so, with his hiss of a laugh comes her dancing backwards, and a huge, cocky grin. "Done." Is it as simple as that? Saying they're over, once all their blood is up? Even now, those glittering green eyes of hers watch carefully to take in Z'kiel's reaction...though her mouth forms, "We need ta do this more often." Smirk.

Once they break, Z'kiel passes a callused palm over the impact point with another rough laugh. "Messy kill," is mostly mused. But, it's done all the same. The knife is offered back, hilt first, his feral state gone almost as quickly as it was riled; he's sweaty, buzzing with raw energy, and yet? He's not one to take that lingering raw edge out on her. There's a whole gym to deal with - and a bowl to run laps in. It's the latter that he's liable to indulge in. For now? "Ayuh. Call when you're free. I'll make time." There's no salute for her this time, though; instead, the bronzerider taps his knuckles over his heart, ducks his head in a deeper nod, and then it's off to towel off, drink up, and get some fresh air.