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.

The Sentinel noted Obieth's dislike, her willingness to stand up for herself without particular hostility, her refusal to allow random familiarity from a near-stranger. He tucked these facts away--needed, or not--and moved on.

"Many fight with magic," he began, thinking. He had travelled, when younger--deliberately learning combat from everyone he'd met. And he'd learned some very good lessons. "There are magics that cannot be easily guarded against. It will grip. Throw. Slam." Not entirely clear, perhaps, but his meaning at least was clear in his mind: the powerful nature of energy and arcane magics when used to throw someone right off their feet. He'd experiencd that firsthand. "Even the smallest creature will kill, then."

He shifted in place a little, returning his halberd to its usual position, leaning his awkward height against it so that he could stand a bit more upright. "There are magics that will blind with light. Trip with plants." A pause, as he searched for phrasing a little less esoteric than his usual. "A power with little recourse. The Sentinel has learned that it must assess before a battle. Threats must be met with the first strike. It must remain hidden, and begin. Decisive." A light gesture, a nod, toward Obieth's throat again (though the specific target was likely unclear), and he went on. "A creature bleeding is a creature dying."

Magic or not, if the opener was a knife to the throat, a winner was already very likely clear.

"A first strike. If it is magic, or it is the body, a first strike. A first note in a song," he tried to explain. "It decides the music."

A questionable metaphor, perhaps. "The Sentinel trains others of the Forge, at times. They spar. They must not kill one another," he went on. "If the Guardian of the Hand wishes, the Sentinel will fight them. It is," he added, his opinion on this backed by experience, "the best choice to learn."

Practice made perfect, certainly; but moreso, fighting taught one what to expect, new scenarios and how to react to them, and more. He wasn't eloquent enough to explain all of this, but he offered nonetheless.

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.

He studied her, for a moment. Gauged strengths, weaknesses, abilities, as best he could in a short time. "They may use both," he responded, indifferently. Magic, claws, it was all the same to him: win, or lose, by any means necesssary. "It will follow." It was a half-deliberate echo of Obieth's own attempts to command him, prior, spoken with mild authority. He led the way a little farther into Draco--still near enough the Aperture to easily see it (so as not to abandon his duties) but not so close that one or both of them would end up in its bottleneck by accident mid-fight. There were times to introduce environmental factors, but a general spar was not, in his mind, the time to do it.

"Prepare," he instructed, still walking--and then whirled, perhaps a second later, with sudden and explosive violence. From a sedate stride he was suddenly smashing the halberd around for Obieth's legs, his intent to knock her legs out from beneath her with its haft--with no warning given, the expression in his eyes that of pure, blank intensity.

It was, apparently, time to begin.

Round: 1/?
Attempt: Trip Obieth up with the halberd
Defense: --
Injuries: sore ribs

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.

Round: 1/?
Attempt: banish the Sentinel to get some distance to prepare her own attack
Defense: --
Injuries: --

He was raising his halberd back around, reading it to swing, when suddenly--he was gone.

She was gone. Draco itself--gone.

He floated in a void: black, empty, silent. Two dim realizations struck him at once--first, this was real void and not his hallucinating imaginings (given the lack of earth underfoot) and second, his ribs had not quite healed from his fight with the black bull. The sudden twist of his own body to strike at Obieth had brought back the dim ache in his chest, and he winced as he drifted there in nothing.

He pondered what to do.

It only took him a moment; he recognized that she would likely try to level the playing field the moment he was out of the Void. Not that it was planned (it was, but he didn't assume as much--there was no time). But that this was a fight, and she would strike the moment he was out, and vulnerable, and before he'd come to grips with the situation again.

So he tucked himself up, curling down to protect his vitals, head pressed near to his chest. This way, when he came out, he would fall: crashing to the ground and hopefully safe from any magic aimed up toward his torso or his head.

This would, he reflected (a little belatedly), prove good practice for him as well.

Round: 2/?
Attempt: curl up so he falls when he comes out (making a harder target)
Defense: --
Injuries: --

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.

Round: 2/?
Attempt: hulk SMASH (to the ground)
Defense: --
Injuries: --

No attack immediately came, and the Sentinel swept to his feet with a quick look around. He spotted Obieth almost at once, and--coming fully upright--broke into a brutish sprint straight for her. She'd gained a little ground, and he knew he'd have to make it up immediately, but for now he seemed to have taken her by surprise: his short fall had provided her a false target to strike out at. He wasn't sure what she'd done, if anything at all--maybe her attack was still to come--but he would try to give her no time to make it.

Instead he barreled toward her like a train, glowing eyes intent upon her face, halberd firmly clutched in hand.

Exactly one step later, he tripped: stumbled, fell, smashing down exactly as the cat had initially intended with her magic, except nothing had been required but a failure to notice a broad stone underfoot. So focused had he been on her that he'd failed to see it, and he didn't even manage to get his hands down before him in time; he crashed down, straight into his bruised ribs, with a (rare) pained grunt.

Round: 3/?
Attempt: get to Obieth quickly
Defense: --
Injuries: sore ribs

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.

Round: 3/?
Attempt: he threw it on the GROUND
Defense: --
Injuries: --

She still did nothing--a trick? a trap? a failure?--and he did his best to take advantage. He came to his feet a second time, feeling more acutely now the lingering bruising in his ribs. They had, he thought, been cracked; they'd healed, mostly, but a little damage still remained.

He'd need to be careful not to snap them once again.

He made a knee, then his feet, and then tensed to charge the Valkhound once again. He rushed her in a surge of violence, his expression fixed in predatory intensity, all his full attention on her and on the distance between them. He'd try to smash into her, if he could--to throw his weight against her, to smash her to the rock before she could manage whatever magic she'd apparently been preparing.

If it had taken her this long, it must be powerful, he thought.

Round: 4/?
Attempt: Body tackle Obieth
Defense: --
Injuries: sore ribs