[ The joke's on Guts-- Jaime hasn't felt like his sword is an extension of his body in years. The look he gives him isn't especially faithful, and neither is his comment of, ] You understand that's very vague, don't you? [ But he has to admit this much: Guts doesn't have to help him, and for that, Jaime owes him for expending this much effort to begin with.
He sighs. It's suitably dramatic, very highborn. Jaime doesn't have the patience to learn anything he isn't already instantly good at. ]
"An extension of my body". [ His tone is lofty, dreamy. Jaime shakes his head from side to side, then works to loosen his grip and tighten it once more. ] Right...
You might want to step back.
[ Because Jaime is shutting his eyes, focusing on the weight of the sword in his palm, and lifting it up over his head with his fingers curled close to the guard. The palm of his false hand presses to the butt of his sword as he takes up a proper stance, and he makes a stab, a swing, and upward slide.
His feet move as he slashes, moving through drills he'd memorised as soon as he was old enough to hold a sword. He counts in his head, feels the beats under his feet, and he goes, and goes, and goes...
And the edge of his blade colours green while he's not looking, Craft sent flying at a nearby tree and cutting through a fourth of it with a deathly, ugly sounding crrrrkkk.
Jaime's eyes fly open, and with it the glow of his sword sizzles before it fades away. ] Fuck.
no subject
He sighs. It's suitably dramatic, very highborn. Jaime doesn't have the patience to learn anything he isn't already instantly good at. ]
"An extension of my body". [ His tone is lofty, dreamy. Jaime shakes his head from side to side, then works to loosen his grip and tighten it once more. ] Right...
You might want to step back.
[ Because Jaime is shutting his eyes, focusing on the weight of the sword in his palm, and lifting it up over his head with his fingers curled close to the guard. The palm of his false hand presses to the butt of his sword as he takes up a proper stance, and he makes a stab, a swing, and upward slide.
His feet move as he slashes, moving through drills he'd memorised as soon as he was old enough to hold a sword. He counts in his head, feels the beats under his feet, and he goes, and goes, and goes...
And the edge of his blade colours green while he's not looking, Craft sent flying at a nearby tree and cutting through a fourth of it with a deathly, ugly sounding crrrrkkk.
Jaime's eyes fly open, and with it the glow of his sword sizzles before it fades away. ] Fuck.