[ The cuts on his hands have stilled their hurt to a dull, incessant throb.
After that last bout out on the banks of Midland, facing nameless soldiers with an equally nameless violence in him for yet another skirmish at Griffith's beck and call, they'd stung pretty fucking bad. But here, on the opposing side of Casca (who's never done him much good, but never much evil, either), there's no pain to the severity of his grip around his sword. It bears further scrutiny, later— to put a second to it later, when violence reigns in war and he's got no second thoughts to him.
Only after she's come sprinting, raising his sword at him in their latest spar, that Guts can see the antipathy she carries for him sometimes. If it's Griffith's fault, or his own— well, there's nothing he can do about that. About petty jealousy, or envy, when his mind falters and he misses the swing too late, scraping up at skin.
No judgment, though. These are hard times, and he's not rendered eyeless to Casca's blind devotion to Griffith, which manifests itself so cleanly in the first sharp strike down. Maybe she hates him. Probably does.
She misses, barely. Halfway. There's a scrape where a scrape of the skin covering his upper forearm catches on the blade, but he twists out of the flayed sensation of flesh against steel, dodging the way her sole aims to claw its shape on his abdomen. So brutal, Casca.
Guts skirts the edges, broadsword shrieking through air, and shoves her down with the blunt side of it, using all that weight and blunt force on his side to send her crashing down.
One sole meets another when he lumbers to where she's toppled and gouges his sword in the ground, a minor monument to futility. Juxtaposed together, they make a pretty ugly pair. With his hands clasped around the hilt, he's looking pretty mean in the face, up until he sighs. ]
You gonna stay down?
[ No way a blade can serve her master like this. ]
Got a few ideas rattling around. You willing to hear me out?
[ It can't be helped that her feelings towards Guts are the negative kind. While hate is a strong word for some, it's not a lie that her feelings are close to that with a mixture of many other emotions. She's jealous and feels envy which drives her to push herself even further when it comes to sparring with Guts.
She has to be stronger, quicker and smart. If she is able to beat Guts, even just take him down onto his back then surely that will show Griffith that she's as good as he is, that she is able to take on heavy tasks.
That being a woman shouldn't deny her the affection and approval she craves.
Seeing the 'enemy' get it over her is what drives Casca to behave the way she acts. Her movements are quick and swift, her eyes always on the prize. There are times she gets a little too confident and when she does, she always finds herself knocked down a few pegs. It's almost as if she's so close to her prize and a real chance to take him down, only for it to get stolen away each time.
The feeling of his sword hitting her is like a ton of bricks so when she falls, it isn't the prettiest sight. Her sword falls out of her hands and she's on her back within seconds. Coughing and gasping for some air, she rolls to her side and grunts out loud. ]
That depends on your 'ideas'. [ Her teeth grit together as she looks up at him, standing up as if to say 'no' to his earlier question. ]
[ Truth is, Guts doesn't know how to act around her. How to react when any hostility toward him comes surging up in waves to bite at the first signs of weakness, except to turn his blade to it, and keep on living; he's never been particularly good with empathy before, and it hasn't changed in his vigil of one at Griffith's side, paying off a debt that's not a proper debt (his life forsaken for war) and incurring the wrath of others on the way.
But his conscience is tripping its way on in today, tardy but not too late to count. Casca's down on the floor, but Guts has more sway to him from that last strike, more spasms in his hands as Guts shakes the tremors out of his fingers, flexing them beneath the bandages. The outcome should be expected, when he's got the mass and the bulk and the force to topple, but she gets her hits in good, cleaner than the rest of the band combined. He's impressed, despite himself. ]
'Course it does.
[ Another apropos of nothing: his outstretched hand dropped in the air when Casca wrenches back upright, no help required. She's really only ever needed herself.
Annoyance briefly lights in him at her glare, and it's like blood rusting metal; a contagion, waspishly preying on the frown overtaking his mouth. But Guts scratches at the nape of his neck after a moment, sparing her a stronger rebuttal. Instead of salting and razing the earth, maybe try cooperating with him? He's got good (dangerous) ideas. ]
Fine. Ditch the sword. Let's take it hand-to-hand. Get your hits in that way. [ Mano-a-mano. Guts leaves his sword embedded in the dirt, both hands raised, curled up in fists. Defense to offense, if she'll take the bait. ] That good?
[ ''Course it does'. Those words rub her the wrong way and it's most likely because it is Guts who is telling her that. The tone he uses always bugs her, even if it's just his normal tone. Someone really needs to tell her to sort out her anger issues.
Although, there's a good chance she will take it out on them. One day Casca will stop being rough around the edges, but today isn't the day (nor tomorrow or the day afterwards most likely, it's a true mystery when she is going to change her tune).
Casca raises a brow. That has caught her interesting. ]
Fine. Let's do it. [ She takes the bait. It's impossible for her to not do so because this means she can get some hits in -- real hits. Sure, Guts is stronger than her, but she is smaller and would be able to make quick movements. That is her plan at the very least. ]
[ You win some, you lose some. It plateaus somewhere. Guts does her the solid of tossing their swords aside, where the clatter in a cacophony of metal on the floor, raising his fists in entreaty.
Volunteering to be a punching bag wasn't on his agenda today, but better they wallop than end up stabbing each other for kicks. ]
Alright, on my count. [ He'll give her some time to stretch out her limbs and get into something resembling a proper stance. He's not about to underestimate Casca at her best like he does at her worst. ] Go.
[ And he's swift with the first punch, air whooshing as he goes for the unmeditated target of her stomach, fist gripped tight to impel itself into her solar plexus and knock her off her balance about five seconds after she's swung back upright. Think fast. ]
[ He probably won't, but she feels like she needs to say that. He might go easy on her, he might not. It's hard to tell with a man like Guts.
Dodge -- it's the first movement that comes to her mind. She's quick enough to miss most of the blow, but Guts does manage to clip her side which is enough to make her stumble. This isn't her first fight however and that means she's able to swing back up.
Her own fist moves quickly as she throws the next punch, aiming for his chest. It's hard to tell if that's going to do anything because, well, she won't be able to pack a punch like he can. ]
[ C'mon, Casca. He's barely literate; all Guts has to him is the stuff of myths, that bigger-than-life origin story of crawling up from the dirt to make something of himself. Bodychecking her to the ground a second early is in bad taste, worse than usurping Griffith's throne and commanding his people to heed.
She moves like she speaks: smooth, languid, a controlled disarray of locomotion, and he's gotta sway back to give himself enough room to catch her fist, wrap his own around it. Then it's reversal, as Guts pushes back with swaggering steps to combat the steps she's advanced, steeling himself so he won't be sucker-punched out. Grinding the force back, too, until he's threatening to crush her fist in his. ]
Wrestling allowed?
[ He may or may not have a leg waiting to sweep her off her feet right now. ]
[ It isn't her fault she wouldn't put it past him if it means winning. In an actual fight, it isn't as if they all go fair and they don't get dirty from time to time. This might be training, but she can't always put her entire trust into him.
Not yet at least. ] What kind of fighting do you imagine getting yourself into? [ Taking a couple of steps back, Casca raises an eyebrow at him. Wrestling is fine and all because sure, it'll come down to it time to time, but she would like to avoid it if she can. Her muscles aren't as strong as his.
Hell, he can easily overpower her with the body alone. ]
[ That's... perfectly valid, considering the kind of person he is, like some kind of jagged rock left unsharpened. If Casca wanted refinement, she probably should've went searching for Griffith, who can keep a conversation and a swordfight with an easy, sawing tempo, like it's part of him— like he's beholden to be witty and grandiosely petty for his own sake.
Too bad he can't articulate his mouth half as much as he can articulate a weapon to hit its target. He's good with his hands, but little else as he staggers back, steps back into something resembling upright, a mirror copy of Casca's retreat. ]
You got any better ideas? [ He's not the one with seniority here, commander, much as his beefy stature would like to protest as he up and stretches, slack on the notion of pandering to come off as sycophantic. ] Not really convinced this is going to work out.
[ Maybe they could go knife-shooting. Maybe she could shoot a knife into his one of his good eyes and literally blind him. Now there's a thought. ]
[ She would hold back against Griffith, it's a natural instinct for her to do so and that's why she was stuck with Guts. Besides, maybe she can get brownie points for knocking Guts onto his ass -- if she can. It feels quite doubtful that it will happen easily. ]
Break time then. ... We've been at it for a while. [ They can come up with something later.
There's no point in standing around like idiots, or at least that isn't what she wants to do. It wouldn't do them any good if they overwork themselves too because who knows when they'll have to move to the next battlefield. ]
It was okay training for the day. [ Yeah, she's taking a stab at him right now. ]
[ No one's conked out or tumbling off cliffs with grievous wounds, so it's a pretty shitty take at sparring, but Casca might be right. It takes languishing around for the muscle burn to actually reel into him, but it arrives all the same, and he's yawning, rolling back his shoulders and stretching out his joints until they pop. ]
Could've gone better. You were off your game today.
[ He's still horribly bereft of manners, even while he turns his head sidelong to gauge her, then picking up the half-emptied canteen he's left sitting out on a rock, handing it to her like a half-assed peace treaty. ]
Here. Get hydrated.
[ In the meantime, Guts is going to do them both a favor and brutally skin the dead rabbit he caught earlier today, dropping down to the small encampment (basically comprised of a couple of rocks) as he takes his knife to the fur. It's almost domestic, except they're both just being rude (and in Guts's case, insulting) at each other, but so it goes. He'll live to see another day, and she will, too. ]
[ It takes Casca 0.05 seconds for her to shot him a glare for questioning her judgment. She always picks them wisely, or at least she likes to think that she does and he's the last person that she wants to have questioned her. ]
Not everyone can be perfect like you.
[ And, as soon as that slips out of her mouth, here he is being nice and offering her some water. Okay, yeah, she feels a little bad about that and becomes sheepish for a moment as she takes a mouthful from the canteen. It only lasts a couple of seconds because she gets over quickly.
Her eyes wander over to his movements and she watches him carefully. It's good that she's gotten used to this lifestyle because there are many high-born women that would feel ill over the sight. ]
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no subject
After that last bout out on the banks of Midland, facing nameless soldiers with an equally nameless violence in him for yet another skirmish at Griffith's beck and call, they'd stung pretty fucking bad. But here, on the opposing side of Casca (who's never done him much good, but never much evil, either), there's no pain to the severity of his grip around his sword. It bears further scrutiny, later— to put a second to it later, when violence reigns in war and he's got no second thoughts to him.
Only after she's come sprinting, raising his sword at him in their latest spar, that Guts can see the antipathy she carries for him sometimes. If it's Griffith's fault, or his own— well, there's nothing he can do about that. About petty jealousy, or envy, when his mind falters and he misses the swing too late, scraping up at skin.
No judgment, though. These are hard times, and he's not rendered eyeless to Casca's blind devotion to Griffith, which manifests itself so cleanly in the first sharp strike down. Maybe she hates him. Probably does.
She misses, barely. Halfway. There's a scrape where a scrape of the skin covering his upper forearm catches on the blade, but he twists out of the flayed sensation of flesh against steel, dodging the way her sole aims to claw its shape on his abdomen. So brutal, Casca.
Guts skirts the edges, broadsword shrieking through air, and shoves her down with the blunt side of it, using all that weight and blunt force on his side to send her crashing down.
One sole meets another when he lumbers to where she's toppled and gouges his sword in the ground, a minor monument to futility. Juxtaposed together, they make a pretty ugly pair. With his hands clasped around the hilt, he's looking pretty mean in the face, up until he sighs. ]
You gonna stay down?
[ No way a blade can serve her master like this. ]
Got a few ideas rattling around. You willing to hear me out?
no subject
She has to be stronger, quicker and smart. If she is able to beat Guts, even just take him down onto his back then surely that will show Griffith that she's as good as he is, that she is able to take on heavy tasks.
That being a woman shouldn't deny her the affection and approval she craves.
Seeing the 'enemy' get it over her is what drives Casca to behave the way she acts. Her movements are quick and swift, her eyes always on the prize. There are times she gets a little too confident and when she does, she always finds herself knocked down a few pegs. It's almost as if she's so close to her prize and a real chance to take him down, only for it to get stolen away each time.
The feeling of his sword hitting her is like a ton of bricks so when she falls, it isn't the prettiest sight. Her sword falls out of her hands and she's on her back within seconds. Coughing and gasping for some air, she rolls to her side and grunts out loud. ]
That depends on your 'ideas'. [ Her teeth grit together as she looks up at him, standing up as if to say 'no' to his earlier question. ]
no subject
But his conscience is tripping its way on in today, tardy but not too late to count. Casca's down on the floor, but Guts has more sway to him from that last strike, more spasms in his hands as Guts shakes the tremors out of his fingers, flexing them beneath the bandages. The outcome should be expected, when he's got the mass and the bulk and the force to topple, but she gets her hits in good, cleaner than the rest of the band combined. He's impressed, despite himself. ]
'Course it does.
[ Another apropos of nothing: his outstretched hand dropped in the air when Casca wrenches back upright, no help required. She's really only ever needed herself.
Annoyance briefly lights in him at her glare, and it's like blood rusting metal; a contagion, waspishly preying on the frown overtaking his mouth. But Guts scratches at the nape of his neck after a moment, sparing her a stronger rebuttal. Instead of salting and razing the earth, maybe try cooperating with him? He's got good (dangerous) ideas. ]
Fine. Ditch the sword. Let's take it hand-to-hand. Get your hits in that way. [ Mano-a-mano. Guts leaves his sword embedded in the dirt, both hands raised, curled up in fists. Defense to offense, if she'll take the bait. ] That good?
no subject
Although, there's a good chance she will take it out on them. One day Casca will stop being rough around the edges, but today isn't the day (nor tomorrow or the day afterwards most likely, it's a true mystery when she is going to change her tune).
Casca raises a brow. That has caught her interesting. ]
Fine. Let's do it. [ She takes the bait. It's impossible for her to not do so because this means she can get some hits in -- real hits. Sure, Guts is stronger than her, but she is smaller and would be able to make quick movements. That is her plan at the very least. ]
no subject
Volunteering to be a punching bag wasn't on his agenda today, but better they wallop than end up stabbing each other for kicks. ]
Alright, on my count. [ He'll give her some time to stretch out her limbs and get into something resembling a proper stance. He's not about to underestimate Casca at her best like he does at her worst. ] Go.
[ And he's swift with the first punch, air whooshing as he goes for the unmeditated target of her stomach, fist gripped tight to impel itself into her solar plexus and knock her off her balance about five seconds after she's swung back upright. Think fast. ]
no subject
[ He probably won't, but she feels like she needs to say that. He might go easy on her, he might not. It's hard to tell with a man like Guts.
Dodge -- it's the first movement that comes to her mind. She's quick enough to miss most of the blow, but Guts does manage to clip her side which is enough to make her stumble. This isn't her first fight however and that means she's able to swing back up.
Her own fist moves quickly as she throws the next punch, aiming for his chest. It's hard to tell if that's going to do anything because, well, she won't be able to pack a punch like he can. ]
no subject
She moves like she speaks: smooth, languid, a controlled disarray of locomotion, and he's gotta sway back to give himself enough room to catch her fist, wrap his own around it. Then it's reversal, as Guts pushes back with swaggering steps to combat the steps she's advanced, steeling himself so he won't be sucker-punched out. Grinding the force back, too, until he's threatening to crush her fist in his. ]
Wrestling allowed?
[ He may or may not have a leg waiting to sweep her off her feet right now. ]
no subject
Not yet at least. ] What kind of fighting do you imagine getting yourself into? [ Taking a couple of steps back, Casca raises an eyebrow at him. Wrestling is fine and all because sure, it'll come down to it time to time, but she would like to avoid it if she can. Her muscles aren't as strong as his.
Hell, he can easily overpower her with the body alone. ]
no subject
Too bad he can't articulate his mouth half as much as he can articulate a weapon to hit its target. He's good with his hands, but little else as he staggers back, steps back into something resembling upright, a mirror copy of Casca's retreat. ]
You got any better ideas? [ He's not the one with seniority here, commander, much as his beefy stature would like to protest as he up and stretches, slack on the notion of pandering to come off as sycophantic. ] Not really convinced this is going to work out.
[ Maybe they could go knife-shooting. Maybe she could shoot a knife into his one of his good eyes and literally blind him. Now there's a thought. ]
no subject
Break time then. ... We've been at it for a while. [ They can come up with something later.
There's no point in standing around like idiots, or at least that isn't what she wants to do. It wouldn't do them any good if they overwork themselves too because who knows when they'll have to move to the next battlefield. ]
It was okay training for the day. [ Yeah, she's taking a stab at him right now. ]
no subject
[ No one's conked out or tumbling off cliffs with grievous wounds, so it's a pretty shitty take at sparring, but Casca might be right. It takes languishing around for the muscle burn to actually reel into him, but it arrives all the same, and he's yawning, rolling back his shoulders and stretching out his joints until they pop. ]
Could've gone better. You were off your game today.
[ He's still horribly bereft of manners, even while he turns his head sidelong to gauge her, then picking up the half-emptied canteen he's left sitting out on a rock, handing it to her like a half-assed peace treaty. ]
Here. Get hydrated.
[ In the meantime, Guts is going to do them both a favor and brutally skin the dead rabbit he caught earlier today, dropping down to the small encampment (basically comprised of a couple of rocks) as he takes his knife to the fur. It's almost domestic, except they're both just being rude (and in Guts's case, insulting) at each other, but so it goes. He'll live to see another day, and she will, too. ]
no subject
Not everyone can be perfect like you.
[ And, as soon as that slips out of her mouth, here he is being nice and offering her some water. Okay, yeah, she feels a little bad about that and becomes sheepish for a moment as she takes a mouthful from the canteen. It only lasts a couple of seconds because she gets over quickly.
Her eyes wander over to his movements and she watches him carefully. It's good that she's gotten used to this lifestyle because there are many high-born women that would feel ill over the sight. ]
You're going to need more water.