(no subject)

[gone_byebye]

The room Ray opens is one that's probably rather larger than two men need for any form of combat practice. It's quite bare, in fact. The walls are painted, but not particularly paneled, and the lighting is recessed into the ceiling rather than out in the open. There is no window, either. The floor appears to be either hardwood or an excellent imitation thereof, fit for any high school gym.

"I rented this room for a ball sport I'm going to be organizing just as soon as I can get a few practices in myself, originally," Ray says. "It involves flashing balls in the dark and two teams. No idea how that's going to turn out, but since I've already got it set aside-"

He gestures to one side of the room, where he's stacked the various pieces of equipment as neatly as he can.

"Here, I think, I have to defer to your superior experience and understanding. Because there's no way I can claim to have a clue about what comes next."

Comments

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

Preston, in an urgent need to banish the thought that someone can be a warrior and not be absolute evil brings the blade up in front of him again, blade pointed downward, spinning-in the hope of catching Ray offguard.

[gone_byebye]

Ray... well. Ray isn't a soldier, or a cop, or a fighter per se. But he has two things going for him:

One, ghosts have a nasty habit of materializing out of nowhere and going "BOOGA!".

And two, he lives in New York City. Sudden moves, even half-perceived ones, are grounds for adrenaline dumps right away now.

The sword flashes out and up. There's no way he'll catch Preston's downstroke with the 'sharp' edge, but by the looks of things he should be able to block with some part of the weapon.

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

Preston's impressed. Ray's stroke improved quickly. And blade meets blade-or at least the dull side of preston's blade as he twists to the side to avoid a sharper stroke.

"Excellent."
Preston ducks and sends another stroke at Ray' this time at his torso.

Pure sparring, pure sport.

[gone_byebye]

Ray's stroke improved because there wasn't any thought in it. It's one of the problems he's had with Jedi meditation. He's infamous for his inability to simply clear his mind by sitting. When there's a task at hand, his empty-mind improves. And when perceived survival is at stake- well, you get what you saw just now.

Fortunately, he's got a better feel for how this is supposed to work now. It's got the muscle memory of Master Qui-Gon's dueling instruction behind it, and that means he knows where the blade has to go to catch Preston's. The motion is only somewhat improved in terms of pure grace, but he's got follow-through this time, pushing back into the strike to throw his opponent's motion upward and slap at the forearm before disengaging.

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

Preston's blade shudders and Preston twists off in suprise, hen his attentions shifts to intense focus and he lays in a second stroke, this one at Ray's ribs, pure instinct. When being attacked attack back. He's forgotten this is supposed to be just a practice.

[gone_byebye]

That one hits. Ray lets out a sharp oof! noise and skitters backward, a swift slip-step that leaves his feet as far apart as they were before. He brings the sword up in front of him, briefly grateful that this isn't 'sabre combat- but that thought is stifled by another one, one that has him smiling. He's starting to understand what the deal is with all those guys in the kung fu movies and the 'bring it on' crook-finger gesture they make.

Not that he does that now, of course. His right arm's currently behind him. Balance, and all that.