The Sentinel intended to be diligent about training his children. V-Onyx-Two had been given several solid foundational lessons: it was time now to offer the same to Onyx-Three, to ensure both were given the best possible start in life. The Sentinel was a Deathmatch champion; his children would have greatness expected of them.

"V-Onyx-Three." The call was rasping, his glowing gaze prying at Draco's shadows for any sign of the lupine-musteline child. Onyx-Three had been carefully genetically selected, in a sense: he'd chosen the best possible partner he could find to create a fighting machine.

It was time to begin to hone it, and to test those facets he had hoped that it would inherit.

There. Alert, swift, attentive. The Sentinel took note, no real emotion touching him; there was a patience to his demeanor that was always there, an unperturbable calm.

"I wish to teach you," he began. "Training will require focus. Is it prepared?" For all that his child had been learning to speak, The Sentinel still did not have much of a consistent or even, sometimes, comprehensible language structure himself.

What he meant was to ask if V-Chaos-Three were ready for such a lesson: prepared to focus, absent of distraction. With luck... the child would understand.

He regarded the child up and down, his gaze one that might at first appear empty but was, in fact, assessing. ('Empty' was a natural result of rounded, glowing eyes with minimal expression, but maybe inside, Sentinel was full of feelings. ...Or maybe not. There was no real way to know.)

"It is good," he declared, at last, fingers tightening around his halberd. He then proceeded to simply... instruct. There was no invitation to sit, no explanation or breakdown of the lesson to come. He just launched into it. "It-... The Sentinel," came the immediate correction, which wasn't quite right but clearer, at least: "travelled widely, after it hatched. It fought, many. It trained with, many," and the periodic mid-sentence pauses were perhaps a tad confusing but still mostly comprehensible. "There are many things it learned from fighting others. In time, if the child wishes to travel, to fight others and to train, the Sentinel will bring it there." This offer granted in his rasping voice, he then went on.

"There are lessons. Anything may be a weapon." He pointed to his halberd--then gently lowered it, sweeping out to indicate with its spike--to very nearly, but not quite touch--claws and the spines on the backs of Onyx-Three's feet; teeth and elbows. And then--a nearby stone. The ground. "Claws and spikes, teeth and bone. Environment. Rocks. Shadows. Places to hide. Things to strike with, or strike an enemy into."

Then he moved on: "There are weak points." The halberd now moved to indicate the inner, upper leg; the neck; the 'armpit,' as close as one could come on a wolf-mustelid-beast. "Places where blood runs near the surface. Cut, and a creature will bleed. Begin a battle with a cut here. Back away. It will weaken and die." Then, the weapon pointed to joints: elbow again, wrist, knee, ankle. "Joints, where bones connect. Broken, it cannot move. Limping, weakened, a weapon removed."

He stepped back, halberd coming upright. "To fight, it must strike first where it can. Decisive. Break a weak point. Spill blood, or broken bone. Each strike, a calculation. To cripple and wound. But it must also defend its own points. Does it understand?" he asked.

He was patient in his long-winded explanation, and quite matter-of-fact, but some part of him wished fervently that he was a better converser. That he could better convey the deathly dance of battle, the grace of it, the winding-in-and-out and the devastating finality some strikes--even first strikes--could bring down. But he was not one for poetic speech, and so he contented himself with laying out (as best he could) the practical aspects in this one initial block of information.

The Sentinel was given pause by this last statement, puzzled. But it is not yet fighting. Ahh--did it think that this was fighting..? He supposed that, given that he was merely a child, this was an acceptable conclusion even if incorrect.

"This is not yet fighting," he advised, "but... combat. Battle. It is not simple," he agreed. "There is much to learn. It becomes..." and here he paused, breath rasping in and out as he sought the right words, not finding in that odd brain simpler terms like 'smoother' or 'easier' or 'more natural.' He settled on "part of you, after much practice."

That-... would have to do.

He then gestured to the child. "It requests that you strike at The Sentinel. The weak points he has shown. We do not truly harm or kill, in a spar; in training. But show what you remember."

He'd watch, give Onyx-Three a chance to practice what he himself had shown him, and go from there. He expected it to be awkward--caves knew he'd been, when he'd first started out. But this was the chance to learn.

The Sentinel's response was a grunt and a light stagger; he made no real move to avoid the strike, and his reaction--however genuine--showed clearly enough that the target had mostly been correct. Most likely it had hurt--a jagged rock wasn't going to be painless--but it was difficult to tell.

"Again," he instructed, "and now I will respond." It wasn't clear was "respond" meant. And it was a little beyond him to think that Onyx-Three might need praise--to offer it as such, though at least by his reaction the child had done nothing wrong.

He stepped back (briefly sparing a hand to feel the knee that Onyx-Three had struck) before bracing himself, this time, halberd in one hand and glowing eyes fixing upon the child.