(no subject)
Characters: Guy, Roy
What: Swordsmanship training!
Where: The stadium
When: Sunday, June 29th, sometime in the afternoon? I dunno.
Rating: G, most likely. Neither are pottymouths, and they're just practicing, so no real violence.
In his dorm, Guy pulled the knot on his belt a little tighter, smiling; he had just changed into his traditional Sacaen clothing, allowing for more freedom of movement. Even if it was just a friendly training session, he hadn't been in any true battles since his arrival at the school, and with the sparring matches coming up, he didn't want to be rusty. He sheathed his sword, slipped it into his belt, and made his way to the stadium, barely keeping himself from skipping with enthusiasm, too eager to notice the snickers at his strange garb.
He knew Roy couldn't be an awful swordsman; after all, he was the son of a marquess, and certainly had special training, but he hoped he wouldn't be too good either, or neither would be able to improve their skills very much, to say nothing of the effects on Guy's normally fair temperament. He felt his stomach grumble softly as he stepped into the stadium, and grinned; he found he fought better when hungry, if only because of the thought of a reward afterwards. He began doing a few rudimentary stretches, glad to find he was just as flexible as ever. He drew his blade, tossing it from hand to hand, and peered around for his opponent.
What: Swordsmanship training!
Where: The stadium
When: Sunday, June 29th, sometime in the afternoon? I dunno.
Rating: G, most likely. Neither are pottymouths, and they're just practicing, so no real violence.
In his dorm, Guy pulled the knot on his belt a little tighter, smiling; he had just changed into his traditional Sacaen clothing, allowing for more freedom of movement. Even if it was just a friendly training session, he hadn't been in any true battles since his arrival at the school, and with the sparring matches coming up, he didn't want to be rusty. He sheathed his sword, slipped it into his belt, and made his way to the stadium, barely keeping himself from skipping with enthusiasm, too eager to notice the snickers at his strange garb.
He knew Roy couldn't be an awful swordsman; after all, he was the son of a marquess, and certainly had special training, but he hoped he wouldn't be too good either, or neither would be able to improve their skills very much, to say nothing of the effects on Guy's normally fair temperament. He felt his stomach grumble softly as he stepped into the stadium, and grinned; he found he fought better when hungry, if only because of the thought of a reward afterwards. He began doing a few rudimentary stretches, glad to find he was just as flexible as ever. He drew his blade, tossing it from hand to hand, and peered around for his opponent.