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> “All fire and vinegar, I see. Bring out my old breastplate. We will see how energetic you are after fighting in that.” It is less the comment than it is the overconfidence that demands chastisement. And you prefer to dispense punishments that come with lessons of their own. [Haughty]
STALWART trait tested
Mikail of Andryski has followed you without hesitation from the depths of monster’s lairs in Grenmire to the untamed reaches of the Fallavon forests. He has showed courage, if not particular talent, in each battle by your side. You have tested his mettle and not found him wanting. But overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer. You will not have your squire’s death on your hands as Sir Marcel Rousseau believes to have his nephews on his.
<span class="mu-i">“All fire and vinegar, I see.”</span> You remark dryly, keeping the humour out of your voice. Clicking a finger to your manservant Orin, you bid him to attend you. <span class="mu-i">“Bring out my old breastplate. We will see how energetic my squire is after fighting in that.”</span>
Mikail of Andryski paints a comical figure once he adorns the breastplate and accoutrements. They were designed with you, a full-grown man and a tall one at that, rather than a pubescent boy in mind. The armour hangs off him like an ill-fitting scarecrow and he moves uncomfortably under the weight. By comparison, you move like lightning.
<span class="mu-i">“A touch to me, I should think.”</span> Mikail blinks at your voice, not quite sure how your dulled blade ended up under his armpit so quickly.
<span class="mu-i">“Er… right you are, milor-“</span>
<span class="mu-i">“Again!”</span> You leave determined to get a decent workout and demonstrate to your squire how far he has to go yet.
<span class="mu-s">*CLATTER*</span>
<span class="mu-i">“My touch.”</span> You speak over the rattle of your squire picking himself up from the deck. <span class="mu-i">“Again.”</span>
Again and again the sparring, if it can be called that, continues. Always with the same result. Spectating sailors make the occasional noise in sympathy to the embattled squire, cementing yourself in some of their eyes as a pitiless teacher if there ever was one.
<span class="mu-s">*TING*</span>
<span class="mu-i">“My touch.”</span> Even a bystanding pilgrim, well used to your punishing martial exchanges, winces at the ringing sound of one of your blows to the helm that sends your young squire reeling. <span class="mu-i">“Again."</span>
<span class="mu-s">*CLANG*</span>
<span class="mu-i">“My touch…”</span> On and on it goes, until finally you take pity on your charge and offer him a way out. Surely the boy has learnt his lesson. <span class="mu-i">“Alright. Had enough for today, squire?”</span>
Mikail of Andryski pants heavily in response. His shoulders are sagged, his shield-arm hangs loosely by his side and his blade is barely hanging centimetres off the ground. His stance is utter dogshit, as your old Master-at-Arms would say. But you can’t read the expression on his face behind that old helm of yours.
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