capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

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WHO: Earth and Wind
WHERE: That one lot nobody wants to build on because people keep exploding things in it
WHEN: Whenever
WARNINGS: Abuse of RPG mechanics
WHAT: Terra and Squall have a spar
WORDS: yes

It took her a little longer than she expected to pick out a sword she thought could stand up to impact against Squall's gunblade, and eventually settled for the other sword she came to this world with. Atma Weapon stayed in Zelgadis's possession; it was an unreliable blade, anyway.

It was funny; when they first met, Terra and Squall both had assured one another that should such a day come, they would be crossing blades as enemies. Yet when the day came, such enmity was absent. This was merely meant to be a spar sort of fight, to keep their skills and reactions sharp. She arrived first, and in waiting for Squall she sat atop one of Zelgadis's stray rock pillars, the break blade balanced on her knees. The sun was bright today, the wind mild.

Terra, expecting to bleed, wore red.

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How long had it even been since he'd done something like this, Squall wondered as he made his way to the place that Terra had told him about. Not since the morning of the field exam, however long ago that was... when he tried to think back, he couldn't work out how much time had passed since then, so he tried not to think about it any more. It felt like a long time.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

But he was restless and edgy; there was no training center around here and no convenient source of monsters to fight whenever he needed a distraction. He had to keep his edge somehow, had to have more to do than just the monotony of his security job or he'd go crazy. So Terra had offered and he'd accepted.

He'd already rearranged his junction, and when he came walking onto the lot it was with his gunblade already leaned back against his shoulder, the heft of it supported by its blunt back edge. His eyes lifted towards Terra where she sat perched.

"Hey."

Letting herself slip down from the rock, her boots crunched in the gravel on the landing. She caught part of her weight on her left hand, right holding her sword parallel to the earth; she rose quickly enough, turning the blade down as she did. It looked like it should have been too heavy for someone as small and slight in frame as Terra was, but she handled it as though it had only a twig's weight.

Then again, they're Final Fantasy characters. This was normal.

"Hey," she called back, moving away from the pillar and approaching her temporary opponent. Her expression was relaxed, but her shoulders tight, ready for the battle. No cloak today covering her shoulders; it was far too warm. She came to a stop a couple yards from Squall, turning her blade as a barricade before her waist.

"I'm ready when you are."

Squall still wore his leather jacket and gloves in spite of the summery weather, and if it made him too warm he didn't seem inclined to let on. He lifted the Lionheart off of his shoulder and into a two-handed grip; as his hands closed around the weapon's angled hilt the elemental junction shivered to life, kicking up a breath of wind that wreathed itself around the blade and lit it from within with a faint white glow of wind magic.

"Ready," he said shortly, and that was all.

Terra was not as skilled with a sword as she was with magic -- who would be, as naturally powerful as she was? So it was with the blade she focused her initial attack. It was where she needed the practice, after all. She wielded it with only one hand (and maybe one day she'd figure out where she'd put her more useful gauntlets and gloves), already putting her at a physical disadvantage to Squall, but she didn't mind.

It wouldn't have been as fun of a fight, if it were easy.

Squall moved the instant after Terra did, blocking her opening attack with his gunblade, and the impact of weapon against weapon released a blast of wind. He'd junctioned more for speed than for power - there was Haste wired into his nerves and Double priming his reflexes, and as soon as their blades rang off of one another he was already lashing out with a counterattack, handling the gunblade's weight and awkward balance with well-practiced ease.

He didn't put his full strength into the swing, however. He'd yet to see Terra in combat; he'd test her defenses before committing himself to a full assault.

Zel had been, in his own way, coaching her into being a bit more skilled than her beginning "whack it until it dies" method of sword-fighting; it was better, after all, to not be hit at all rather than take every blow at full strength and rely on Cure to the end to put blood and bone back in their proper places. Squall moved a bit faster than Terra expected this early (Haste?), but it was nothing she wasn't used to.

She was hit here and there, but even against something like Squall's gunblade Terra wasn't showing much pain or diminished fighting skill for injury. She landed her own blows, but her greatest strength wasn't in melee fighting anyway.

It would take more than this tentative, halfhearted style of fighting to knock her down -- and it'd take much more than just her blade to do the same to Squall.

Squall honestly didn't bother much with evasion himself, it turned out. He blocked some of Terra's blows, but when he couldn't, he took the hits and let the curative magic he'd junctioned dull the pain and stop the bleeding.

He went through a few exchanges like this, making noncommittal strikes here and there, testing Terra's guard and then breaking away rather than committing to the assault. Eventually, though, he took a half-step back, shook his hair out of his eyes, and resettled his grip on his gunblade - the only warning he gave before he charged into a headlong flurry of quick slashes with the full power of his swing behind them.

When she noticed the cuts healing over without effort on Squall's part, Terra smirked. Regen, she realized. She hadn't heard or felt him cast those spells when he arrived, so he either layered himself with the magic before he arrived, or they were hard-cast into his weapon and clothing. She had been fighting clean of such things, but now that they were confirmed in play, it was only fair that Terra catch up.

She manages to get her own regeneration going just before the flurry starts; though she can evade some of the blows, more connect than not, tearing at the flesh of her arms and the fabric of her dress with ease. It hurts, of course, but it is nothing like dying. Nothing is like dying, like compressing down to stone and feeling the body fail and practically decay in the wake.

Terra exhales a breath, adrenaline rushing through her veins faster than the blood flows, and she almost feels like grinning. With a half-skip backwards, Terra shifts the grip on her sword and lets power flood into her hands.

Not for a strike, though. Not yet. "Fire two!" she calls, calling red spikes of flame from the earth, not even warming up with the lower tiers. Squall can handle it.

Fire fountains up around Squall and he throws an arm up in front of his face to shield his eyes, the only defensive measure he really has time for. And Terra is right, he can take it; sparks glow in his hair and the collar of his jacket and smoke curls up from his clothes, but Dispel as his spirit junction absorbs the worst of the heat and keeps the flames from catching on him.

In the wake of the spell there are red weals on his face, and more that don't show under his clothing, and like the cuts from Terra's sword these don't heal exactly, but the curative junction keeps them from blistering. He'll feel them later, but right now they're not important. One-handing his gunblade, he brings his other hand up before his eyes just for a moment, cold light collecting in his palm, mouth quietly forming the word "blizzard" in the instant before he throws his hand out towards her and releases a hurtling sphere of ice that hasn't even had the chance to reach Terra before he lunges forward again.

For Terra, there are no arms raised against the onslaught of ice; she narrows her eyes against the cold, and braces her body for the force of magic, but otherwise makes no defensive moves, no evasive dodges. Her shoes grind in the gravel, but even in heels she keeps her balance. Being the creature she is, it's no surprise that the magic is the easier part of Squall's assault to brush off; she lets that hit to better prepare to parry his blade. Besides, regen seals up the ice shard cuts in little time.

Next past her lips is haste, the flash of time magic making the cuts and wounds seem to fade against reddened skin. It fades from sight, but not from effect; her shift and swing, the speed of her return attack is accelerated.

Now it is hard to keep the smile from her cheek.

Even with his junction, Squall can't keep up with that attack. He takes another cut without a sound, bleeding fresh for a little while before the magic infusing his body does its job, but he faces Terra steadily, still unfazed.

"No you don't," he says, under his breath. He reaches his hand out towards her again, giving Griever his command: draw.

Terra can no doubt feel it when Griever reaches out and snatches the fragment of magic out of her. The single spell traces a streak of light across the space between them, flying to Squall's hand, caught and held for a heartbeat before he releases it again, and then the time magic meets the Haste already junctioned to his nerves and sets it ablaze. In the blink of an eye his gunblade's back in both hands and he's charging again, the Lionheart tracing sheets of blue-green light in the air as it flies out.

It's unlike anything she's ever felt. Not as painful or as extreme as the pain of magic compressing to stone, not as easy to brush off as the hollowed-out draining that comes from osmose; her breath clogs and crashes in her throat, eyes wide as she stares at that streak of light, at Squall.

What did you do? she thinks, panicked. After everything the Empire did, after the fiasco getting her own magicite returned to her had been, Terra has become fiercely protective of her power. Even one spell, even only copied and not outright stolen -- it's not something she expected from Squall.

So startled, she doesn't have time to parry this blow, the deep gash and the force of wind knocking her backwards. Terra almost drops her sword, shaky on her feet; surprise rolls, grows and transforms into a harsher fighting spirit.

"Quake!" she calls, bracing her balance as the ground ripples and tears beneath them both, gravel crunching and cracking in the ferocious tectonic activity. She doesn't wait for the ground to settle before another fast, hard strike.

A little too late, Squall realizes his mistake, but by then it's impossible to take back. He staggers as the ground underneath his feet rises up against him, going down hard on one knee; the point of his gunblade plants into the shuddering ground and he braces himself against it to keep from being knocked completely prone.

He's still off his feet when she closes for the attack, and even with his speed and reflexes supercharged the most he can manage is to drag his weapon free of the ground and surge up onto his feet to meet her head-on - no time to bring the gunblade to bear properly, he just punches the blunt end of its awkwardly-angled grip at her, using the weight of it for sheer raw brute force.

The blades crash together, screeching against one another for awkward grips and unyielding stances. Terra has the leverage, but Squall has the strength, even with as awkward a stature as the quick battle has forced. Terra keeps her strength on the blade to force him down.

"What did you do?" she asks, the words stilted through clenched teeth. There's anger in the bend of her eyebrows, but it's fear in the eyes that stare at Squall.

Squall's face, in contrast to Terra's, is harder to read; the sharp determination not to let her force him down overrides everything else. He pushes back, bracing himself and leaning his weight into their locked weapons.

His voice, though, is quiet, and he's also speaking through his teeth: "It's a simple draw. Shouldn't have any lasting effect." And he should have known better, because she told him what was happening to the espers in her world, and what it was like for her. "...Sorry."

Edited 2011-07-12 17:20 (UTC)

There are reasons why Terra shouldn't trust that sort of explanation--some to do with Squall himself, but most not. She keeps her weight on the blade, both of them locked in that standstill, while she tries reading meaning from his face. It's difficult for the stoicism, but when he apologizes, he sounds honest.

It's a long few seconds with the word hanging in the air, the swords scraping against one another in force, before finally Terra's blade skids hard against his, she herself spinning to the side to avoid the inevitable swing.

"Not," she says, jaw relaxed but shoulders still tense, "without my permission."

Squall lurches at the sudden release of the deadlock, and nearly faceplants right into the gravel because he doesn't try to press the attack, but the remaining effects of the Haste on his already-primed reflexes help him to catch himself and he withdraws very slightly instead, getting himself fully back onto his feet and facing Terra squarely.

"I wasn't thinking," he says, voice still quiet. It's hard to admit, because he doesn't do it often - only in combat, when waiting for an impulse to make the full trip to and back from your brain takes long enough to get you killed and you learn to let it skip right past and let muscle memory do a lot of the work.

He's already apologized; he doesn't do it again. But he does bow his head, just slightly, eyes not leaving Terra's face - more of a tuck of his chin than anything, a tiny gesture of acknowledgement and maybe just a trace of shame.

Terra keeps stance, blade on the defensive and body ready for a strike. Again, Terra knows that as far as logic goes, she probably should not trust Squall at his word. They were enemies, at some point in his past, and how often has Terra been betrayed by those she considered friends in this world?

But she can't find the will to become cold to him, just like she could not turn cold to Keith, or to Lina, or--

To his nod, she gives one in return, the tension easing out of her face. She twists the blade in a beckoning gesture.

Now that all that's taken care of, it seems to say, are we going to keep going?

Squall... doesn't answer right away. He holds his stance, not making a move, the Haste making his breath come short and sharp until it finally starts to run down. He's frowning faintly, in serious contemplation.

He needs to fix this. Somehow.

Eventually, he seems to come to a decision, and he tilts his head slightly toward Terra. "...Your scarf," he says. "Can I borrow it?"

Suffice to say, it's not the response Terra expects. It's apparent on her face, where her eyes widen and her brows bend for surprise, head tilting to the side in an almost birdlike examination. Her defensive sword lowers a touch, distracted.

"... Right now?" She blinks once or twice, digesting the request, before lowering her sword completely. "Sure..."

Squall waits, patiently, shifting his gunblade into one hand and letting it lower until the point is scraping gravel again.

Not a plot to get her off her guard or anything like that. He actually just wants her scarf.

Once she gives it to him, he plants the Lionheart in the ground for a moment to free up both hands, and gives the scarf a few twists longways before he calmly and methodically ties it around his head, over his eyes, blindfolding himself.

Then he reaches for his gunblade again, locating it by feel and hefting it back into the two-handed grip he prefers.

Terra, on the other hand, hasn't taken her sword back up in a fighting stance. Instead, she is openly staring with no small amount of confusion. It's not every day one of her hip scarves is used as a blindfold.

"... What... are you doing...?" Her tone wavers, uncertainty replaced with incredulously needing to ask the question in the first place.

Squall figures it ought to be pretty obvious what he's doing, but he's pretty sure what Terra really wants to know is why.

If he were going to be honest about it, the reasons are complicated. Mostly what it boils down to is that he screwed up, and this is the only way he can think of to tip the balance of uneasy trust back into Terra's favor by putting the advantage of the situation in her hands. But that's not something he's prepared, or able, to admit to.

"Haven't practiced blind-fighting in a while," he says instead, by way of an explanation.

As expected, the subtleties of Squall's motives are not conclusions Terra draws. Frankly, she doesn't know him well enough to find them, even were she more skilled in interpersonal reactions than she is now.

It reads more like showing off than a handicap, so even as she readies her blade once more she rolls her eyes. Even she can fight well enough blinded, and octopus ink is much less comfortable than fabric. With how much magic there is bottled up inside Squall, wrapped up around his body and his blade, she probably wouldn't even need to see him to fight anyway.

She closes her eyes on the exhale, small hand holding tighter to the hilt. She has no shield, but wielding one blade two-handed never feels right to her. (Now, bearing a sword in each hand... but oh well.)

"Ready when you are," she calls through the quiet air. Predictably her eyes stay closed, and she wastes no time or sound with blindfolds. After all, he doesn't need to know she's matching his unintentional challenge.

Squall takes a moment longer to focus himself, to listen and to let Griever's watchful silence in the back of his mind inform his senses. It has been a while since he's done this; a good long time since he's done it on purpose, and even his enemies stopped bothering with simple spells like Blind after a while.

He homes himself in on the direction of the sound of Terra's voice, and after a moment or two longer to collect himself, he lunges forward into a fresh charge, holding his swing until he feels the subtle change in the air around the blade that tells him she's in range.

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behold the latenessness of esperchan

yay esperchan!

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