nightfeared: HE KNOWS BETTER THAN TO UNDERESTIMATE THE OTHER MAN.
Keeping his sights firmly pinned to his frame as he adjusts his stance, mirroring his own with a grace he seemingly always carried, movements are drawn with a slow, calculating ease, earthen toned eyes reflecting his own intent with an almost playful, but no less focused manner.
Cat-like, even as he fixes his glasses from where they rest atop his nose, not once does his gaze waver.
& yet the overall atmosphere of mirth remains, despite their attention, zeroed in on one another as they watch in wait of who’d choose to strike first, to initiate another round of their dancing. A fancy spin of his dagger, one earned through many years of practice, amber eyes locking in on the frost beginning to chill along the sharpened edge.
Adjusting his hold along his blade, he shifts, bracing for an attack, eyes shifting across the retainers lithe frame for any tell-tale give or hint at whether he’d choose to strike head-on or toss his weapon as a diversion — whether he’d need to suddenly block high or low, or if he’d have a chance to try landing a strike of his own.
Mind racing with the familiar thrill of battle, the anticipation prickling along the edges of his fingertips, all along the skin of his arms in a manner he can’t help but notice, Gladio swallows thickly, all before he finds his body moving with a speed he’s thankful for. Without so much as a twitch to warn him, Ignis is turning, throwing his blade with a speed that nearly catches the Shield off guard.
The sudden clang of the dagger as it collides with the guard of his blade — he grunts, stumbling back only a step, steeling himself against it as he wills himself to move & shift accordingly. The heat budding along the palms of his hands beneath his glove, he clenches his fingers tighter around the hilt of his great-sword as he brings his blade upwards, angling it to block against Ignis’ sudden yet speedy offense. He goes low — something that does manage to catch him off guard.
He takes a quick leap back, as much as he can with what energy he can spare as he grits his teeth to avoid the clattering. He resists the urge to call his shield, knowing he needed the practice to fight against quicker enemies with his great-sword alone. Eyes narrow as he makes the decision to swing the blade horizontally, knowing that at the very least — it’d give himself more breathing room, more space rather than continue to risk fighting in close quarters — at a disadvantage of his own.
The Shield grits out with a breathless laugh.
𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 ; horrendously embarrassing were he being judged by any of their mentors over the years. cor would have his head for tucking left instead of right in the heat of the moment. but this ––– an opportunity to unwind on the beaches of galdin quay ––– it wasn’t meant to be life or death. it was meant, perhaps, for an opportunity not to think for once in his life. so when gladio reels back from his slash low only to swing his blade wide, ignis ducks left without a single thought ; seeking simply to avoid becoming the previous night’s sashimi, and paying little attention to the tide as it rolls in.
the sand ––– difficult terrain as it is to begin with, every step like a slow sinking stone ––– is, at present, the greatest enemy to his agility. he should have anticipated this ; but the sun’s heat has sweat prickling at his temples, seeping into the crease of his collar, and his blood beating heavy between his ears. dodging the swing, he rolls as he was trained to, but the sift of the sand has his palm skidding, sinking, and the roll onto his elbow and shoulder becomes unsteady. instead of rolling back onto his feet: he flops onto his back with a definitive, muted thud. the tide comes in with the gentle crash of waves, and wets his back all the way up to his waist ; daggers fallen at either side from limp wrists.
the fabric of his shirt clings to his skin ––– a saltwater sort of stick that was difficult to replicate under any other circumstance. the thought alone had the taste on the back of his tongue ; or so he thought, when he knew in reality the sea breeze itself was equally at fault. green eyes blinking behind glasses mucked and mired with wet sand and dew drops, ignis sighs. but the sigh is book – ended by a chuckle ; the chuckle rolls into a quiet giggle ; and his giggle is sparked to life –– from low embers to a blazing fireside. his laughter is warm, full – bellied and bright: a sound that, to any of their companions, comes as a rarity ––– his shoulders shaking as he attempted to catch his breath.
hair caked with sand, an utter mess, he removes his glasses entirely ; makes a miserable attempt to clean them with the hem of his shirt as he tilts his head back to look up at the blurry image of his companion. ❛ you may want to retract that statement, ❜ he says, curl of his lips lopsided and sardonic.