ORIGIN

The halberd came toward her neck, and her eyes narrowed, but the gesture was a slow one and the Sentinel was speaking--explaining. When it actually touched her, though, she jerked away, lips peeling back a little to further bare her iron-grey saberteeth.

His next gestures did not touch her, and her face settled, though the tip of her tail illuminated teal and twitched with irritation. The next tracery of contact--along her spine--would have sent a pleased shiver through her were it from her master's hand. But it wasn't; she didn't know or trust the Sentinel enough to allow herself to be petted, let alone to have a blade drawn along her spine. She pushed up and stepped back with smooth grace, lips again peeling back to pause just short of a hiss, eyes narrowing some. "Don't," she warned simply, in her husky voice, and then stepped back, sat back down again.

The lesson itself was clear enough: all creatures, at least according to the Sentinel, bore similar structural weaknesses. Blood that flowed strong and near the surface in similar places--armpit, inner thigh, throat. A spine and skull that could be broken to debilitate and kill. She made a mental note, and wondered, too, at suffocation; her general method of predation was to tackle her prey down and bite the neck until the air and blood flow simply... ceased. Would that work on anyone-?

Would that work on him? She studied his neck, pondering this for a moment, then looked to him again, tail still twitching here and there.

"Yeah, 'she' does," she answered smoothly, pulling herself a little more upright, less hostile hunch and more noble grace. "And how do you handle magic, then? Or things too far to strike?" he asked him, curious now as to his methods. If he was trusted enough to guard the Chaos Forge and the black heart of the caves, surely he had his methods, and his reasons for not relying on his magic.

Somehow, Obieth assumed that he must be ancient: a thousand years old, maybe more, as ageless as the Aperture itself. It didn't strike her that he was a new creation, barely older than she, herself; he seemed to bear a confidence and self-possession that only the ancient possessed.

She had, she noted wryly, been upgraded from an "it" to a "them." Still wrong, but he's on the right path, she thought, darkly amused. But past her little mental mockeries, she really was paying attention.

Strike first. Strike decisively. He has a point, she decided; but reliance on a first strike--though a first strike was always a good idea, and one she would remember--would only double her weakness against being surprised.

She could, she supposed, banish someone to the void and prepare to ambush them, but if she were already bleeding, or if her magic had failed...

It might have seemed foolish, to another, for her to try and account for every possibility and to twist it all in her favor. After all, luck was ever a factor; a fight could easily swing one way or another in an unexpected heartbeat. But to Obieth, it was foolish not to--or at least to not try; her job as a bodyguard ensured her lifestyle, as did her ability to defend herself. She could hardly live lavish, after all, if she were dead.

She committed the brief lesson to memory as best she could, and then considered the offer. "A spar?" Why not? she thought. She had just stabilized, after all; she had a couple more hours, too, before she'd more desperately need water and by then she could be back in Pegasus. A rolling of her shoulders, and she pushed upright.

"Be careful. I cannot be really injured. I have work to do," she went on--and nodded to the Sentinel before adding, "I'll be careful, too. My magic against your body?" she suggested; this way, she could see how he dealt with magic, and test her own magical reliability against someone who used their muscles and weapons alone.

It was a good way, she thought, to learn.

The attack was sudden, enough that even her feline reflexes were caught off-guard. That wasn't to say she didn't react, of course; she sprang back and up, away, with lightning speed. But it wasn't fast enough for the dog-beast and his sweep--a skilled strike which had taken her jump into account, and which toppled her down and over in a clumsy tangle of limbs.

Her ribs, her flank, hit the rock beneath her in a rush, the sudden sensations of violence and bruising pain knocking the breath from her lungs and leaving her wide-eyed. She scrabbled to come back upright, lashing out immediately with reflexive magic.

First strike, she thought, thoughts racing to keep up with the action, and she reached for the tactic she'd come up with only moments ago: remove the Sentinel from existence, long enough to get into an ambush position a little farther off and land her own decisive hit.

Tripping her, though a skilled hit, was not at all decisive: not unless he followed it up with something truly deadly. She understood that he wanted not to harm her (as she herself had requested) but still... simply tripping her? He may as well have used that element of surprise for something more powerful than that.

Something, indeed, more decisive.

Obieth had used her time to gain a little distance; now she turned back, speculatively staring at the spot where the Sentinel had vanished.

The spot where he'd emerge.

She took a breath, and readied her magic again: this time a more dangerous sort, the kind to smash and crush and pin. If she could crash him to the ground, take him down and smother him against the rock, perhaps she could end this quickly.

To her dismay, he emerged... lower than she'd expected; there'd be no horrific fall to hard and jagged stone, then. He was already on the ground. She readjusted, struggling to at least hold him there, to add weight and heft to the air above him, enough to crush him down and keep him where he was... but the magic grip slipped, missed, her adjustment not fast enough to make up for his changed position.

Maybe her magic had hit him a little late--she wasn't sure, but down he went, smashing to the rock in a painful-looking crush of limbs and the clatter, a moment later, of his halberd on stone.

Obieth wasted no time, scurrying backwards a few steps while pulling for her magic once again. KEEP HIM THERE, she thought, frantic, struggling to get a hold of the air around him. She'd draw it down, if she could--weight it, smash it into his body, press down on him and hold him to the rock where he'd fallen-...

If she could...

But even so, her mind was racing ahead. Have a backup plan. Don't rely on magic alone. If he comes, again--make sure there's enough space--keep to the shadows, she told herself. She was unaware that he shared her reversed night vision (stronger in the dark) but it seemed good advice, on the surface, and she angled toward the nearest stone--ready to try and leap behind it.