[location: central] let's do the time warp agaaain - backdated to before the system glitch :D

[whyfearthedark]

One might think that an elf bound by his own code would rush to fulfil his end of a bargain, and one would be right given a few prerequisites: one being that the elf in question didn't feel cheated, and was not prone to hold a grudge.

One Paul Smecker lost him his one pastime (or a rather substantial chunk of it), and Nuada, who can be said to be so many things, is not one to forget past slights. He gorges himself on them, and lets them fester and rot in his belly until they burn hotter than the sun.

This is not to say he's no intention of honouring their deal. He is bound by honour, after all, and as much as he is vengeful he is honourable.

Some may complain that he wiles away the days and the nights, that he does nothing to initiate his lessons in close quarter combat. Hand-to-hand, foot-to-temple, elbow-to-nose - oh, he shall teach them. He shall teach them pain, and its consequences. He shall push them until they bleed, the little cockroaches, and they shall have to prove to him that they want to learn.

All in due time.

First, he needs a venue.

He isn't particularly in the mood for shopping gymnasiums. The thought amuses: to find and make use of an ancient Greek gymnasium, with all its rules and regulations. He doubts most of the modern humans would overcome their modesty and fight in the nude.

More's the pity. What better way to learn than to be completely stripped of their imaginary armaments? A slip of fabric won't save them from evisceration, after all.

He walks the streets with purpose today, with some form of measured intent; one after the other location is dismissed and discarded at first or second glance, until finally he finds it. It.

It is a small school, where Extra children go to learn nothing at all. It is a small school with a big enough PE hall.

The Extra coach, complete with whistle hung around his neck, looks none too pleased to have him there. "Excuse me, mister, uh, if you need to talk to your kid, please do it after class--"

One white hand shoots out, grabbing the simulacra by the leather whistle strap. "This. Is. Mine. You need to leave now. You and your children."

The Extra blinks, glassy-eyed with a lack of comprehension. Nuada watches as another light flicks on behind the fake eyes, and the man plasters on a cheerful smile. "Oh, of course sir. Right away, sir."

"Yes. Run along now. Don't come back."

"No, of course not, sir." The coach blows his whistle, catching the attention of the prepubescents and the adolescents. "Everyone! Outside! Laps 'round campus!"

The desolate chorus of teenagers shuffling their feet out the double doors is like a kind of music to Nuada's ears.

There. Now to test the equipment.

Comments

[untoldtale]

Emma stands perfectly still for the inspection and meets his gaze without flinching. He's just another boogeymen, and she decided a long time ago to treat them all - the creeps, the monsters, everything in between - the same: don't get rattled, and don't show it if you do.

That plan is almost ruined when Nuada's hand comes up. She tenses, fingers of one hand involuntarily curling, and her eyes go a little wider before the moment passes and she relaxes again. At least she's got a tighter leash on her magic than she did at the meeting, that would...be unfortunate.

When he moves she turns her head to keep an eye on him, then shrugs at the question.

"With a gun, yeah, and a sword now, but hand-to-hand?" The corner of her mouth twitches. "Nothing formal, I went to the school of hard knocks. It's an ongoing education."

"

[whyfearthedark]

There's plenty for Emma to look at, should she be so inclined: Nuada makes little to no show of disrobing from the waist up. He unclasps his dark gray outer cloak in a short burst of snap-snap-snap and long fingers walking down the center of his chest like some form of white spider. Underneath is something less elaborate but no less exquisite for it, in the form of a deep dark red shirt with a collar that wraps very snugly around his neck. As marred the prince, the cleaner the lines of his wardrobe. But that too is discarded with precious little protocol. If modesty is part of his vocabulary, he stands above it.

He stands tall, a warrior; more a general than a prince. If he is bothered by the stump of his arm (the bicep, or what's left of it, the only proof he ever had a full set to begin with), he doesn't show it. For all anyone knows, he is so unbothered by it as to make it a non-issue.

That scar is a vivid purple-brown, expertly healed to be sure, but still as jagged as one can expect from such a scar. The burns are a different story, overlapping old scars as well as skin formerly untouched by blade or otherwise. They are mottled, darker brown than purple, an as uneven as curdled milk - down his right-hand side and back, across his shoulders where his armour melted, crawling up his neck and along the left side of his jawline. If one should look closer, one might see that chunks of his hair is burned off as well.

Nuada is indifferent: he does not care.

"Hard knocks," he says, and laughs low like wind rustling through leaves in Autumn. "Hand-to-hand. Very well."

He takes another sidestep, assuming more of an obvious stance than his previous one. This means business; he is oath bound. "Hit me. Give me your best."

[untoldtale]

None of it is for show, she knows that, but Emma feels it would be disrespectful not to watch so she does. The prince's movements are very efficient, economical even, and she speculates on how many times she's going to end up on her ass here. Her guess is a lot.

At the request takes a breath and moves to face him, lets her arms hang loose at her sides and rolls her shoulders, assessing. Scars over scars over scars, going for the side with the missing arm is obvious so she should do the opposite, or is that more obvious? Would she be analyzing this under normal circumstances...what were normal circumstances? What would she do if he were standing between her and...something important?

With a small shuffle of hesitation Emma steps out with her left foot, left arm half-raised in defense before springing off her right foot, right fist following through to jab him in the lower ribs, below the stump.

Not her best but her instinct.

[whyfearthedark]

If Emma expects to have her ass handed to her on a plate, so to speak, she would only be halfway correct. Nuada moves quickly, quicker than any mere human could ever hope to be: his left foot steps back, he twists from the waist and slaps her hand. If she stumbles from lost momentum, she stumbles; if she regains her footing, all the better. Regardless, he is not yet impressed.

"Don't waste your time on the obvious disadvantage," he says, voice soft as always. "Close your hands into a fist, hit your opponent in the ears, hard. Break his nose if he has one, bruise his clavicle, crush his kneecaps. Go for the groin if you have to, but you do not go near the obvious."

He steps back, feet together, knees slightly bent. "You only get one chance with me, Miss Swan. If you do not aim to kill me, so be it, but you will incapacitate me or I shall end you. You have your magic to fight me, but if for some reason you find yourself without it one day you'll not waste energy.

"What if your son were here with us... You wouldn't hesitate to do what you must. You would strike me down in one blow, for his sake."

It may not be a secret that Emma has a son back home, but how Nuada came into knowing it is a different matter: he listens, and he hears things, and he overhears things. He makes friendly inquiries. He's made it his business to know, in the past. He is not about to change that now, for the sake of integrity or privacy.

He tilts his head to the side. "A precious little thing, his mother's eyes and his father's smile... Is he beautiful, your boy-child?"

[untoldtale]

She does stumble, yes, but she stays on her feet and uses the momentum to wheel and face the elf again. The smack to her hand stings and she flexes her fingers. No damage, all's well, she can keep going once she's done listening.

And Emma is listening, because he is right. The obvious is too obvious, she need not psych herself out. The most vulnerable places are just that for everyone, and it's best that she train herself to aim for those.

When Nuada speaks of Henry her eyes widen with fury but she won't let herself be blinded. Nor will she let thoughts of her son's admonishing, the morality play of what makes or undoes a hero, affect her. She doesn't answer with words.

Emma responds by going for Nuada's throat, literally, one arm poised to block his while she lunges to strike at his windpipe with the heel of her opposite hand.