To the side of the sparring circle, Dimitri finds a quiet spot to run through some easy stretches. His leg is still stiff, his ribs still prone to twinge. Despite his general tendencies, he's making an effort to take it easy and let them heal, but he can’t sit idle, either.
When he's warmed up, he picks up his longsword. He hasn’t done this since ... the diner, actually; avoiding the weapon, unwilling to hold still or focus long enough to practice. Slowly, at first, Dimitri begins running through drills. It’s comfortable, comforting, a relief, and he picks up speed as he falls back into familiar patterns. His technique is formal, but there's a smooth fluidity to it. To someone who knows what to look for, it's clear he's got real experience.
Dimitri doesn't consider himself much of a teacher, but at home he had a small collection of "students", which is to say "kids who wouldn't leave him alone until he agreed to teach them the basics." He'll offer to guide anyone who seems clueless, or approach anyone more confident with a gleam in his eye and an invitation to a match.
I won't ever slack up
a. OTA (high chaos)
It's not his specialty, but Dimitri's trained in hand-to-hand, as a fallback in case he's ever disarmed. He occupies himself with beating the tar out of a punching bag. Once he finds his rhythm he stops paying attention to where the bag is swinging -- and it is swinging pretty wildly.
b. Murderbot
Until he spots a likely-looking partner, someone he's confident he won't hurt accidentally. "SecUnit, hello!" Dimitri indicates the ring with a wave and a tilt of his head. "Interested in a bout?"
Try and play the role and yo the whole crew'll act up
Dimitri makes sure he has a wide berth before trying anything with magic. No, wider. Wider than that.
When he's sure no one's in the possible blast radius, he raises his hands and concentrates. Lightning crackles through his veins, swelling in time with his breaths. It's like flexing a muscle to direct it down his arms; sparks arc between his fingers, the hair on his forearms prickles, and static fluffs him up like a Ghibli protagonist. This is going well! This is working!
The explosion launches him several feet. He lands with a whoof, ears ringing, the glaring afterimage whirling behind his eyes. A few locks of hair are smoldering, and the collar of his shirt’s on fire.
no subject
To the side of the sparring circle, Dimitri finds a quiet spot to run through some easy stretches. His leg is still stiff, his ribs still prone to twinge. Despite his general tendencies, he's making an effort to take it easy and let them heal, but he can’t sit idle, either.
When he's warmed up, he picks up his longsword. He hasn’t done this since ... the diner, actually; avoiding the weapon, unwilling to hold still or focus long enough to practice. Slowly, at first, Dimitri begins running through drills. It’s comfortable, comforting, a relief, and he picks up speed as he falls back into familiar patterns. His technique is formal, but there's a smooth fluidity to it. To someone who knows what to look for, it's clear he's got real experience.
Dimitri doesn't consider himself much of a teacher, but at home he had a small collection of "students", which is to say "kids who wouldn't leave him alone until he agreed to teach them the basics." He'll offer to guide anyone who seems clueless, or approach anyone more confident with a gleam in his eye and an invitation to a match.
a. OTA (high chaos)
It's not his specialty, but Dimitri's trained in hand-to-hand, as a fallback in case he's ever disarmed. He occupies himself with beating the tar out of a punching bag. Once he finds his rhythm he stops paying attention to where the bag is swinging -- and it is swinging pretty wildly.
b. Murderbot
Until he spots a likely-looking partner, someone he's confident he won't hurt accidentally. "SecUnit, hello!" Dimitri indicates the ring with a wave and a tilt of his head. "Interested in a bout?"
Dimitri makes sure he has a wide berth before trying anything with magic. No, wider. Wider than that.
When he's sure no one's in the possible blast radius, he raises his hands and concentrates. Lightning crackles through his veins, swelling in time with his breaths. It's like flexing a muscle to direct it down his arms; sparks arc between his fingers, the hair on his forearms prickles, and static fluffs him up like a Ghibli protagonist. This is going well! This is working!
BOOM.
The explosion launches him several feet. He lands with a whoof, ears ringing, the glaring afterimage whirling behind his eyes. A few locks of hair are smoldering, and the collar of his shirt’s on fire.