10325/Training with Sharps

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Training with Sharps
Date of Scene: 05 December 2019
Location: Fogwell's Gym, Clinton
Synopsis: Two immortals discuss the past, and prepare for the future with a little sword training inside a boxing ring.
Cast of Characters: Connor Macleod, Byron




Connor Macleod has posed:
Today was a regular Autumn day in the city. A few flurries were falling from the darkened, cloudy sky, and the temperature was cool, hovering around 0 degrees. The city was always busy thoough, except at this location. Normally, during the middle of the day, it was semi-busy, but today there was a sign on the door.

"Gym Closed for Private Event" was hanging from the door, the dark, electric tape prominant on the top and bottom of the hand written note.

Connor Macleod was inside, stretching a bit. His sword was in an intrictae scabbard on the boxing ring, and his over coat was hanging over the ropes. He knew the owner, and had arranged this a few days ago, to give his student a chance to do this without anyone watching or snooping. Hopefully the man had gotten his invitation.

Byron has posed:
Indeed the owner knew a lot about secrecy and so made sure the place would be closed and no prying eyes would be dropping by; which was good because the other half of this little party drew eyes to him wherever he went.

Byron's spine tingles as he makes his way up the stiars to the gym feeling the presence of another immortal close by, one he hoped to hell was Connor. All the same he pushed forward, waring a long coat, and otherwise far less fancy clothing than he's accustomed to. He was keeping it low key, something he could do when he wanted to, but that was never often.

Coming through the door with his cane in hand, Byron offers Connor a grin, "Well, definitely picked perfect surroundings," he says doing a slow turn to take in the place and breathe in its scent. "Sort of reminds me of the time we caugt the Braddock and Baer fight in '34," he says tapping a pair of hanging gloves with the end of his cane.

Connor Macleod has posed:
The feeling of another immortal creeping up Connor's body at least confirmed that the man had, indeed, got his invite. At least, he thought it was him. He felt like Byron. Staying close to his sword just in case, Connor waits and watches the doorway as it opens.

With a smile, Connor nods in silent relief as Byron does, indeed, walk through the door. "I thought it was best to keep things low key. I know how that is yer favorite way ta' get around. All quiet and covert like."

Sarcasm. Not quite a Scottish invention, but this Scot was good at it. "Braddock and Baer...ach, so long ago." Tapping his forhead with his left index finger, Connor says, "Haven't thought about that one in ages. 3 rounds was it? A brutal fight. Been in a few of those myself, once upon..."

Byron has posed:
Byron grins at Conner's words, "Oh, aye," he says putting on a Scottish accent. "You know I just love not being the centre of attention."

Stopping by the ring, Byron sets down his cane, and then shrugs out of his jacket, producing his own sword, a basket hilted cavalry saber as he does, it's put down next to the cane.

"Yeah, hell of a fight," Byron says having dropped the accent in favour of his own faded posh English tones. "And I've seen my share," he adds. "I know, hard to believe with this pretty face of mine, but I boxed quite often my first go at life," he says. "Nothing like knocking the other rich sots at Cambridge on their asses when they got in my face."

He grins, "So what's on the menu today? Fists or blades?" he asks leaning against the ring.

Connor Macleod has posed:
Connor returns the smile, and leans back against the ring while crossing his arms while watching Byron take his jacket off. "AH kin imagine." Connor rubs his chin and the phantom pain from a jab or uppercut or three.

Wincing silently at the memories of getting into a few scrapes, Connor then grins. "I'd ah loved to see you knock a few English sots on their asses. Cambridge, aye. Been there once. Enough for me. Too much...English for my tastes."

Connor nods at the question and says, "That is up to you. You said you were a bit rusty with the knife you put down over there, "nodding towards Byron's sword, "Want to shake off a wee bit a' tha' rust? We can go easy today, go from there."

Byron has posed:
Byron grins and once his jacket is off he climbs up into the ring smoothly, despite his bad foot. Once on his feet inside he grins, "Yes, I imagine it'd seem that way, was too bloody English for me and I came from the place," he says. "Though it was worth it to put some sots on their asses and watching the faculty try to tell me I couldn't bring a bear with me to school."

The story was semi-famous now on the internet, Byron after being told school rules forbid dogs on the campus, brought a bear with him, keeping it in his room and everything.

There's a smirk, "Well, yes, my knife," he gives Connor a look. "Is a bit rusty, or rather, the Janissary knows all my tricks with it," he says as he picks up his blade, then picks up his cane as well. "And he knows about this," he pushes the handle up on his cane revealing a slender blade inside. Not heavy enough to take a man's head but certainly capable of wounding, "I know not exactly playing by the spirit of the rules, but with a leg like mine you have to do what you can." He smiles. "Anyhow, shaking off the rust sounds fine, shall I use one blade or two?"

Connor Macleod has posed:
"A bear. Right." Connor chuckles, shakes his head, and grabs his scabbard and sword while using a bit of dexterity to crawl into the ring. "That must have made them all piss themselves." Connor cracks his neck left, then right, and moves towards one of the corners, tossing the scabbard on the deck, while keeping his sword in his right hand.

"Up to you really. Whatever style you think gives you the best advantage with a person who is challenging for your current state of abilities." Funny how suddenly the accent changes into his strange, fluid accent from "lots of places". "If he is familiar with that style, you can always change it up. We can start one handed at first, then move to two handed when you have a solid grasp of one handed again."

Connor turns and faces Byron. With a smile, and a bow, Connor assumes an "en garde" position. "So, tell me about this Janissary. I know the basics, and whohe is...what makes him hate you so much?"

Byron has posed:
Byron opts for the single blade style today, to see how he fares without his usual tricks a tactic that it seems he and Connor both agree on.

He takes a position opposite Connor, mirroring his stance and bowing, before leaping into an attack meant to test Connors defenses as their little sparring match begins.

"Slept with his wife, so the bastard killed her," Byron says. "Or at least I think he didn, just heard she died after and then the Jannisary was at my door looking for my head." He follows up with another testing slash. "Escaped that, and then he'd come after me whenever our paths crossed, except, a few months back one of his students tried to give it a go, told the boy not to bother, but he wouldn't listen, anyhow, I won obviously, so with that insult added to the other, the Janissary will be coming."

Connor Macleod has posed:
Connor takes a step back with his left foot. Rotates his right shoulder forward, then back, and steps sideways with his right, all very fluid and graceful. *Clang! Clang!* Connor had been ready for the aggressive attack that Byron starts out with. Watching the method, Connor remains on the defensive, letting Byron "show him what's he's got." With a nod, Connor continues.

"Ah. Classic. Sleeping with another man's wife tends to piss them off." The sound of their swords hitting each other rang throughout the room. "Never done that myself." There, the sarcasm returns. Connor winces again, this time remembering the "gentleman's duel" a few hundred years ago, and pistols at dawn.

Block, downward block, step left, and an opening...stopping just for a moment Connor adds, "I see. Well, you can always continue to run. I will say that that rarely ends well. Especially if he is teaching Junior Janissaries."

Byron has posed:
Connor has the better of Byron to be sure. Though the poet has some grace with that saber as well as his pen. His own attacks have a fluidity to them, though one broken up slightly by the stubborness of his right foot, which sometimes drags at inopportune moments that causes him to have to compensate. Though for all that, he's a saavy fighter, keeping his attention on the surroundings trying to push Conner back against the ropes and grasp what little advantage their arena gives them.

"No of course not, you're a pillar of virtue where the fairer sex is concerned," Byron says over the clang of steel. "To be fair she was very pretty," then frowns a little. "I think," after all it had been nearly two-hundred years.

There's a somewhat serious nod about the idea of running, "Thought about it, I admit on some level the knowing that someone was coming for me has put a little spice back into my life, it's almost like I'm mortal again," he says exhuberently. "Then I think, I'm Byron, and do I really want the last chapter of my life written by a man with such a ridiculous moustache?" he asks, falling back at one of Connor's blows then trying a counter. "I mean he may have shaved it since the Ottoman Empire fell but, still it's how I think of the man."

He shakes his head. "So, that's why I'm here, to save my head and to save my legacy all at once."

Connor Macleod has posed:
Connor nods silently at that opportunity. That foot does cause some issues with a defense, but Byron has done well to make his own style work. Connor even notices the maneuvering to push him against the ropes, to which ehe obliges, mostly to see how well Byron moves when on a full attack.

"I am glad you are as intelligent as you are charismatic, My Lord Byron." The tone allows a brief mixture of amusement and sarcasm to flow. Connor chuckles, and blocks. *Clang*. "Aren't they all pretty? Pretty hair." Block. "Pretty eyes." Riposte. "Pretty as*..." *Clang*.

"AH well. If our hearts were as strong as the steel we wield." Connor grins, and adds, "Spice huh? Well, I can understand that. Had one or two times in my life where I was bored, and then along comes a villain to ruin my boredom, and "spice" it up." That one almost got through. Byron may be rusty, but he was still a very talented swordsman.

Connor blocks, crosses blades, and comes closer to look Byron in the eye, pausing the action. "Well then. This is a good start." Releasing back, Connor raises a hand for a pause, and slips under the ropes to grab towels. Tossing one up at Byron, Connor dabs at the sweat. "Not bad for a first go Byron.".

Byron has posed:
"Oh indeed, there's beauty in every woman, if you know where to look for it," Byron answers as they continue their dance of steel. He was doing well he thought, though he's aware Connor is giving him ground to see what he can do.

"Indeed," he says of hearts and steel. "But then our lives would be a lot less fun," he counters with a grin.

"For me it's nearly constant, the boredom, but, I manage and if I have to live awhile under the Sword of Damoclese to find a little joy again, so be it," Byron says. "Just not sure I am ready for my final adventure."

Byron meets Connor's eyes across the steel and when the pause is called for he steps back, saluting with the sword. "Agreed, I shall spend the rest of the day wondering if I almost got the famous Connor Macleod or if he almost let me get him," he doesn't seem bothered by either outcome. He catches the towel and dabs his face. "So, what's the prognosis doctor, am I like to win the day when it comes? With more of your skilled instruction of course."

Connor Macleod has posed:
Wiping his beck, Connor says, "Aye, that is true. The boredom can be rote, and daily, indeed." Connor thinks on that for a moment or two. "We all handle it differently, in our own ways, I suppose. Thinking about that Sword, that last hurrah can be tough, and I feel for you Byron. Considering it is not just obe sword we beed ta' consider, but a myriad of Immortals, looking to end us to grab the Prize."

Connor moves over to a bearby small fridge hidden behind an old desk, and fishes out two bottles of water, tossing obe towards Byron. "No, I'll be hobest Byron, you are better than you think. You almost had me there." Connor's eyes twinkle, magnanimously.

"As for the rest, you beed some work. I could see a few spots where a skilled swordsman could take advantage, but I think that is just rust. We can shore up your defenses. On the attack, you are great, but when in any swordfight, are we always on the attack?" Connor shakes his head, and downs the water. "The Doctor's prognosis is take two of these, and call me for another practice." Naw. Didn't hit. "Guess stand up isn't in my future."

Byron has posed:
"True enough," Byron says grabbing up his scabbard and putting his blade away. "So easy to forget the Game sometimes when you're surrounded by staff and living in the lap of luxury," Byron grins. "You should try it sometime."

He hops out of the ring, finishing towling himself off, before catching the water, his brows raising with pleasure and surprise to hear he almost got him. "Well, liking my chances better already," he unscrews the cap off the bottle and takes a swig, nodding to the assesement.

"Sounds doable," he says before groaning at Connor's joke. "Might need something stronger to make you funny," Byron opines. "Shall we go to Joe's I'll buy a few rounds and you can try out your material," he jokes, well except about the round at Joe's.

Connor Macleod has posed:
*SHINK*. Slipping his sword into his scabbard as well, Connor tosses the empty water bottle into the recycle bin next to the table. "Naw, I'm good. I have one or two people that try and keep me sane. That's good enough for me. A horde of people is just risking being revealed, and you know the rules." That was a not-so-subtle-reminder to the man.

"Your chances are good, if he has a bad day. Keep it up, keep your training, and you'll be ready. Have you sought out anyone else out there? Maybe Duncan, or someone else?" Connor tosses his towel in the "used to wash" bin.

"Yeah, Joe's sounds great actually. Glad you are buying. I left my wallet at home." With a grin, and a nod, he grabs his overcoat, puts it on, and "disappears" his sword inside. Now at the door, he waits for Byron to get closer, then turns out the lights.

Byron has posed:
Byron pulls on his coat and puts his sword away inside of it before he grabs his cane. "Don't worry, Old Man, I barely know my people's names," that wasn't entirely true, but it was on brand for Byron. "I'm certainly not telling them the truth, they all think I'm a distant realtion of the old Byron who's milking it for all it's worth as my musical persona. Even if I told them they'd only throw me in the madhouse."

He chuckles at it but it was a sort of life, though he quickly shakes off the little frown that comes with those thoughts grinning as he says, "Duncan and I get on like oil and water, might go see if Niki has some tricks to share as well, but who I really want to find," a dramatic bow is given to Connor, "Besides you of course is Doc," Methos, but then Methos never told Byron who he really was back when he taught Byron the rules of the game. "Though knowing him, he'd just teach me how to run better."

There's a shrug for that as he tosses the towel in the bin, and joins Connor by the door, smiling, "Of course you did," he says. "Drinks are of course on me, after all I think I still owe you for the tickets to that fight in '34..."