Dance in the Snow

It was early in the morning at the Colosseum. It was also comparatively quiet, with the cold wind howling snow about. People were still practicing and having their fights of course; yet a cold wind can be a good hindrance in the way of the warm taverns and the impending Yule.

A lone cloaked figure was fighting, though. Kicking the snow aside and stamping down cauldrons - there were already several lit, blazing angrily in the wind as they fought back against the white tide. Still, the snow was a fierce opponent, and the figure with his beribboned horns and that tightly wrapped cloak of his seemed to have a lot of work to do.

It's snowing? And it's cold?!

Oh what perfect weather!

A looming, shiny figure could be spotted within the Colosseum, them having been looped into help with one thing or another. And as one might expect of such an outcome, a Jotun sized snow shovel is wielded by them, scraping away at snow on paths. Well, less scraping and tossing, and more 'the shovel is on the ground and the massive makari is plowing through it with big snow energy'.

Eventually, he ends up near the figure fighting with the snow. "Peassse!" Skielstregar calls out happily. "Do you need a hand with the sssnow?"

There's a nice circle. Eventually. It's not much of a circle of fire if one were to be honest - but with the piled up, wind kissed snow, it was more or less what one short sith-makar in a cloak could do.

Hearing the far larger - and excited - sith call out to him, the figure tilts his head. After a moment, he picks up his glaive and tilts his head. "Silver," A muffled voice calls back out to them. Seems like there's also a scarf covering the "stranger's" face. Another tilt of head to the other direction. "Can they make the skies to stop crying the cold death?"

Skielstregar laughs. "They cannot! Besssides, you had your fun with the ssssummer, now it isss time for thisss one'sss favorite weather!"

He looks down and about the space, the large shovel getting shifted to another shoulder before he plops it down to scoop a pile up and toss it behind him. "What isss it that you are doing, Purple?"

Purple - or as he is sometimes known, Aelwyn - takes in a deep breath and exhales deeply. "Never realized it can get this cold." The draconian responds and then hoists up his thickly wrapped foot. Thick rags bundled, which made his step undoubtedly a bit wobbly. "If the snow melts, perhaps this one can finally practice their routine. Without getting complaints of 'accidental fires'."

The draconian moves to pick up one of the cauldrons in the center and moves it to the spot Skielstregar just cleared up. A moment later, he lights up the pot with a thrown match. "... this one can see Silver is thoroughly enjoying their time. Snow patrol?"

"Thisss one did not realize either until they got to thessse lands! While the heat of Am'shere isss a comfort, thisss is blisss!" Skiel rumbles warmly, moving to another spot to clear up a cauldron with the wide shovel.

Dig. Toss! "Snow patrol! Hah! No, thisss one wanted to spar, but found no one really here! Underssstandable, but they still wissshed to exercise. Thisss one wasss helping around until they got roped into shoveling the place! They promisssed food and some change, sssso it isss not a bad trade!"

He tilts his head to the side. Tail swaying and cleaving snow. "Could you not practice the routine with salt water inssside instead? You use oil, no?"

Aelwyn picks up another cauldron and follows on after Skielstregar. His tail swayed from under his cloak as he was quietly very happy about this unexpected assistance.

He also didn't think to use shovels on the snow.

"Salt water?" The draconian asks, as he plops down the cauldron. Moment later, the fire rages. He was really trying to great a micro-weather system inside his little circle, considering how many cauldrons he had. "How would that help this one practise with fire?" Aelwyn adds, then stops near the far taller sith-makar. And he considers.

"Is Silver still looking for a dance partner?"

Skiel is content to keep shoveling things out of the way until every cauldron is placed. It's the least he could do, after all. "Salt water isss harder to freeze. Practice inside, easssier to clean up," he explains. "Pretend water isss oil. Pretend fire isss there. Thingsss don't get caught on fire!"

He taps the side of his head.

The question makes him tilt his head to the side. "It ssssoundsss as if you are the one looking for one, Dragoon. But thisss one can help, if need be? They are in a good mood."

Aelwyn's orange slit pupils narrow at Skiel's words. "... but how can this dance with salt of fire, guide it in the air, let it dance around this one's body?" He raises his shoulders. "... and swallowing a torch laced with salt water does not sound very appealing."

Another cauldron is dragged over and Aelwyn throws in another match. He waits for the bits of fresh starter wood to catch up on fire, before he glances back up at the larger silvery sith-makar. "Yes, this one was. It has been long time since this one has danced. Remember the one from the summer?"

Skielstregar shrugs. "People practice with wooden sssticks so they don't cut. It isss winter. Like fire, you have to adapt. Burn bright in the ssssummer, smolder in the winter. Elssse you will burn out."

He chuckles. "Yesss. Thisss one remembersss. Would you like to do sssuch a thing again?" he offers.

"But..." Aelwyn begins and then takes in a deep breath. "... then this one would be closer to becoming a water dancer." And that would be a great tragedy for someone as hotheaded as him. Picking up his glaive, he glances at the center of the circle. Snow was being pushed away by the heat from the cauldrons, but then he looks back up at the larger sith-makar.

A moment later, he lifts up his hand and just presses it against the exposed silver scales. "Yes. Except this time we would dance a dance. As if were were gridlocked in combat - but the our blades would sing in chorus."

Skiel rolls his eyes. "For sssomeone ssso free, you sssure keep yousssself sssingular," he points out good-naturedly before stopping to be in the circle.

A brow quirks. The scales are frigid, like holding a pile of snow in hand. There's a perplexed curl to his tail, but he chuffs. "Alright."

The large makari tosses the shovel off to stick into a pile, him trundling out of the circle to attend to another snow pile. He reaches in. Digs about. Then pulls free a familiar looking halberd. Shining silver, runes aglow in a shimmer. It seemingly tugs towards the pile. "No no, you've been in there for overlong, time to come out now," he rumbles to it before returning back to center with his signature weapon of choice.

"Free? What has made Silver think this one is free?" The Dragoon curiously asks - and not even with his usual playful tone. "One is beholden to fire and gold much as Silver feels the ice and responsibility weigh on his scales."

Aelwyn looks at the cauldron. Well, here goes nothing. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly peels away the cloak off his shoulders -as if he was trying to tiptoe his way into a cold lake, and lowers it next to the cauldron. His usually vibrant ruddy scales were wrapped up in bandages and scarves of all sorts; haphazardly tied together tight. Obviously he had no idea how to wear proper winter clothing.

"Hnnh. Silver's weapon seems..." A moment of contemplation, smack of teeth. "... healthy."

The large makari snorts. "You conflate responsibiltiesss with changing circumstances that needs be adapted."

Skiel looks over Aelwyn with a raised brow. "... you know sssoftskinsss make very warm clothing, no?" he mentions. "They call the heavy, warm onesss parkasss. Thisss one thinksss they could make one fit you."

He glances to the halberd, then bobs his head with a light smile. "Yesss. Malefic isss happy in the snow and cold, thisss one hasss found."

He rolls his shoulders, then holds the polearm in a half ready pose. The metal on the weapon glimmers.

Aelwyn gestures at himself, then spreads his arms open wide. "Is this not adapting?" Yes, he was wearing actual (nearly) clothing. Go him.

The blunt end of the glaive is dropped down, and he takes few steps forward, scraping the end of it on the thin layer of snow. Tilting his head towards the side, he eyes Skielstregar with a brief pause. And concern. "... has Silver ever swung a halberd without lethal intent?"

"You're getting there," Skiel chuffs before twisting his head to the side. "... erm, yesss? Quite often? They only strike to kill when it isss absssolutely necessary."

He twists the halberd to rotate in his hand, the axe head spinning about before it stops with the flat replacing where the deadly edge once was.

Aelwyn tilts his head. "Not quite what this meant." The sith-makar explains and then he holds up his own glaive. Carefully stepping closer, he gives a wide berch at first; slowly moving his arm along as he gaughes Skielstregar's reaction.

Then with a fluid motion, he takes a single running step forward and swings the blade up diagonally; staying on his rag covered claws.

"Then mean what you sssay," Skiel shakes his head and focuses on Aelwyn's movements. He moves slowly, matching the smaller makari's movements with wide steps. He doesn't have to amble much to cover distance.

Fluid motion, a weapon comes up! And Skiel's polearm twists to go horizontal, attempting to block the skyward strike with the haft and shove it aside.

Aelwyn lets the blade be blocked and shoved aside - but then his body grows surprisingly lax as he just lets his glaive be redirected away. The harsh collision of blade and blade jerks his body momentarily - until he lightly grasps Skiel's weapon and thwips down hard with his tail to stop his momentum.

"Stop." The smaller sith-makar suddenly calls out, trying to pause the scene. "Can Silver do that again, if this one swings again?" He asks, before his teeth are visible, grinning wide. "Not lethal or even trying not to be lethal. Blades, dancing in the air."

Skiel's weapon is cold.

It's so. So cold. The runes glimmer brighter, the flat of the axehead shows a reflection of Skiel, scowling, all but briefly-

The call to stop makes Skielstregar cease immediately, sharp points pointed away and a step of distance given. "Erm... alright? Thisss one is confused as to what you wisssh to do. But they will comply."

He readies once more, weapon held so it could easily return to and execute that same blocking motion.

Aelwyn goes back to where he was, looking at his hand, slowly flexing the fingers. Taking a loose rag from about his wrapped torso, he makes sure to tightly wrap it around his palm. "A practice for a dance, Silver. One swing at a time."

And with that, he follows on his previous steps - and with the same running step, he swings his glaive down, prepared to grasp the larger sith-makar's halberd; though this time to use as leverage to vault himself up into the air.

Skiel tilts his head to the side. "... alright?"

A block from the upperslice. But instead his weapon is grabbed and Aelwyn vaults upwards.

The weapon quietly rattles, and suddenly inverts so the base of the haft meets Aelwyn's torso and pulls in an attempt to throw him over a shoulder. Skiel blinks.

Aelwyn was surprised enough by the sudden touch of the haft over his torso that he lets go of his own glaive - and instead his hands move to rapidly walk down Skielstregar's shoulder back, as he slows his fall down.

A moment later he lands down to a crouch with a loud thunk. "...ngh. Silver is getting hang of it." The draconian compliments, then as he wipes off his front, he eyes the mysterious halberd. "... this one thinks."

Skiel turns once Aelwyn catches his footing. "Thisss one thinksss they are starting to undersstand what you mean. It isss certainly different."

He watches Aelwyn dust himself off, and he looks to Malefic. "... thisss one thinksss Malefic doesssn't like being touched by otherssss."

Aelwyn moves to grasp his glaive lying on the ground and leans it against the nape of his neck, folding his hands over the shaft of it. "It was something the troupe performed - a theater of blades." He glances around. "And if the snow did not devour this city, maybe this one would find more partners for it."

The orange slit-pupils return towards the mysterious blade though, and he tilts his head. "Possessive?" He lets out a quiet hmmh. "Usually it is possessed in these stories." He gestures with his hand. "... what are the chances it would gut this one?"

"And maybe more partnersss would come abound if you were not on fire consstantly?" Skiel teases lightly, putting his weight against the halberd.

He ponders that question, looking up to the snow falling sky. "Malefic wouldn't," he says with certainty, gaze falling down to the blade. Looking at his own reflection, a life-filled silver eye squinting in appraisal. "They have stayed blows that this one tried to connect. Downright refusal to continue when a fight isss won. They knocked you with the hilt, no? They seem to know what they're doing."

He shakes the weapon a bit, almost like he was trying to wobble some sense into someone. "They make zero sense."

Aelwyn lets out a huff towards the side. "If this were not, what is there to live for?" He asks bag with a rumbling chuckle, as he steps closer.

Eventually he finds himself in front of Malefic as well, looking at the blade with a tilt of his head. His own glaive moves to rest against the side of his neck, again. "First Silver describes reason, the other he admits insanity." Tilting his back upwards, "Now who is the sane one in this relationship?" The Dragoon's eyes fall back down onto the blade. "It is as if it were a person. Perhaps one should hope they do not get jealous." There probably would be a wide toothy grin under that snout covering scarf of his.

Skiel sighs. "You know what thisss one meansss. Thisss one can guesss what they want, but nothing more. It isss asss you sssay; if it were a perssson. But a perssson with no mouth, no handsss, no eyesss. They wisssh to talk, but cannot."

The magical halberd remains upright against the soft snowfall. The flakes brush against the metal, runes glimmering as each one passes. "It isss not jealousy, thisss one thinkss. Thisss one thinksss they are complex asss you or thiss one."

The Dragoon was starting to shiver, so he quietly moves to grab his coat and wrap the warmed garment around himself. Instant, obvious relief. With the cloak tightly held against him, he looks over at the larger sith. "For someone with none of those things, it feels as if it has said already many things." The draconian points out, giving a sharp whip with his tail.

"Besides, there is nothing complicated to us - one likes snow, the other fire." Aelwyn teases with a low rumble. "... though this now wonders what does this blade enjoy, if not what a blade is meant for?"

Skielstregar reaches over to grab one of the fire cauldrons, him sliding it closer so that Aelwyn could have some warmth. He bobs his head. "They have sssaid a lot over time."

He snorts, shaking his head. Though the question poised is a very, very valid one.

Malefic is pulled closer, Skiel looking at the metal as if it could see past the striations. "What /are/ you meant for?"

The blade offers no answers.

A sigh leaves him. "Thiss one doesss know it enjoys the cold. Beyond that, they are unsure."

A long pause. "... there was this one time, however. Malefic did something. When thingsss were getting bad on a job, thisss one asked what they should do. It used thisss one's reflection. They couldn't speak, but they did mouth 'save them'. Thiss one hasss been unable to get the same reaction to happen again since then."

Aelwyn bows his head as he resists the urge to just sit on the cauldron. He has tried. It was not as enjoyable in the end as he thought it would be.

"Hmmh." The Dragoon lets out, then takes a step forward and points at the tip of the blade. "Does Silver know how a blade is forged?" He asks then, and before the larger sith-makar has a chance to respond, he is already happily pointing out, "In fire." Well, of course. "Tempered in fire. It is usually when one finds the truth of how one's made. The one who bends; and the one who cracks." There's a moment of pause. "In the troupe, one can see both."

Speaking of which, he tilts his head. "Does Silver wish to continue the dance? Already have three steps; now there's only hundred more to be found."

Skielstregar raises a brow, maw opening slightly to answer the question. But he's cut off. Mouth shuts with a clack. Pensive. Then a flick-flick of his tail as he's accepting of that logic. "That... makesss quite a lot of senssse. Perhapsss tensssionsss allow for Malefic to reach out easier. Hence why they do nothing now."

To answer that query, he plants Malefic into the ground, halfway into a mound of snow as the axe head glimmers freely in the air. "They can watch from the comfort of a frozen throne," he snickers, walking over to a nearby bench where his weapons were and pulls free a spear. "Let usss continue. It isss entertaining."

"A frozen throne - " Aelwyn tchs, "Yet all the taverns are full of warmth." Putting down his cloak by the cauldron again, he picks up his glaive and gives it a few testing swings, to loosen up his stiff body. "Come then, Silver - and let us see if we cannot teach one how to dance." He calls out, as he moves towards the center of the circle outlined by all those cauldrons. And overseen by Malefic in its lonesome throne.