It’s a lucky thing she’d planned on fade-stepping away with her regained mana before even realizing that Samson wasn’t done yet. His foot catches her ankle just as she slips through the air, and the sensation is not unlike tumbling down a hill, albeit less dizzying–she rides it out, stumbling through the magic in a clumsy zigzag pattern, certain that she’d have a better chance trying to grab a greased nug than gaining control over this course. But in a few seconds’ time, she’s behind Samson again, and surprisingly still on her feet.
It’s his question that nearly knocks her on her behind.
❛ –and what use do you propose this will serve me? ❜
she slowly guides his arm around his body, just as
he taught her, and draws it up to press tightly against
his back. she fumbles now, but with enough practice,
she’ll be swift–not quite the warrior he is, but adept
enough. not that a slave like her even had USE for
self defense.
❛ to break the monotony? ❜
he turns his head to smirk at her over his shoulder.
❛ or maybe i just like having your hands on me. ❜
Calpernia swallows as she straightens herself, running her fingers through the already-sweated hair at her widow’s peak. Would it be wrong to lie? She’s so accustomed to avoiding discussion about her old friend, anyway–it’s strange to think that she’s close enough to Samson that there were even other options besides. But the cruel truth was that she’d rather just accept Samson’s praise and keep sparring than have to bring up Marius. She wants to pretend it’s just them here, that the ghost of her loss isn’t hovering over her shoulder everywhere she goes.
Something more sour than mourning gives a brief tug at the pit of her gut. Guilt?
She doesn’t give a proper answer, just an noncommittal shrug as she paces parallel from the General. Maybe she’ll tell him the truth, in time. But not now. Now, her veins are alight with adrenaline, and she has no intention of slowing down.
Her heart gives an excited hiccup as she pauses, briefly, to roll the ankle he’d caught when she was fade-stepping. She bounces on her other heel, giving him a wry grin.
❝I’ve taught myself a lot of things.❞
It wasn’t a complete lie.
❝Have you ever sparred with a mage before, General?❞
It’s no surprise that she’d spirit away like that, pulling the energy of the fade to fuel her steps into a haste. He’s seen it before in battle. Calpernia is not one to pull punches or shirk advantages in a fight. This is no different. Perhaps to most that might be intimidating, but Samson has spent all his life focusing on martial training. Even after being kicked from the templars, the man had his fair share of scraps and fights, living no different than some mangled tomcat in the bowels of Kirkwall.
Calpernia fumbles then, small and quick; seen in jerky movements, in hands running through hair and in a fixed posture. He follows pace alongside her, red-tainted gaze alert should she make her next move. But Calpernia’s next move isn’t with a fade-step or blast of magic. It’s with a question, almost harmless in nature were it not said with that ever-present, imperious voice.
Blood snaking across the cobblestones, a scream that becomes distorted. One voice becomes two, and then she’s no longer there. Red and gold, blistering hot, it’s like a blasted furnace descending upon them all. Ready your sword and shield, remember your duty. This is no mage, not anymore.
❝ Wouldn’t call it ‘sparring,’ but I’ve fought mages before--hard not to when you served in the Order. ❞ Especially after the mess that was Kirkwall--no--the entire Mage and Templar war. He tried not to dwell. He wouldn’t let that happen again. He wouldn’t let the Chantry’s inaction fuel another bloody mess like that either.
He doesn’t want to think about that anymore.
Samson steps forth. Two steps is all it takes to get to her, and he outstretches his palm once again. His stance is stable, but unmoving. A moment’s pause is all he’ll give for her to react before he lets the Red connect. Calpernia’s had enough practice by now.
