pirateangelbaby | [IC, open to all] Thor Fight Club

It's a beautiful spring day in the Nexus, rolling green hills boasting bright splashes of color where flowers have blossomed in all their glory, birds singing in trees sheltered with new green growth, and the sun is shining merrily through puffy white clouds, the breeze only a little on the cool side.

In one of the flatter fields out towards the Wilds, however, things are not quite so peaceful at the moment.

There's an enormous rough ring marked out with scorch marks in the grass, large enough to rival the gladiator arena on Sakaar, and on the edge of the ring there's a cloth laid out with a small variety of weapons that look... well, very second-hand, to put it mildly. But enough to give a good selection of swords or axes or hammers, with a shield or two for protective options.

Thor stands to one side, checking his armor to make sure it's securely fitted before battle, training session or not, and can't quite chase away the grin on his face in favor of a more serious, kingly expression that he probably should be wearing. Learning to compensate for his missing eye is a matter of life and death, probably, whether his or someone else's, but he can't help but feel excited to face something other than a half-assed training dummy shoved into the corner of the cargo hold.

Right, then, who's up for a little sparring with the god of thunder?

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Thor deserves to fight someone who's known him long enough to see through his moves, to challenge him with pure Asgardian ferocity and determination. Sif should be that person, but she isn't. Not really, without her memories to inform her of his strengths and weaknesses. She can only guess at his skill.

That doesn't mean she won't fight him, though.

"What say you?" she calls, approaching him from across the field. "My blade against the weapon of your choice."

It's been a long time since Thor has had a chance to cross blades with Sif, and he wasn't always the victor in those matches, either. She's always been one to give as good as she gets, if not better, her own skill giving him the drive to improve his own so he could beat her and vice versa, like steel honing steel.

Even without her memories, he's glad to face her again, idly wondering how much of her skill her body remembers without conscious thought. He's not exactly fighting at his best, either, and he resists the urge to self-consciously touch the patch over the ruin of his right eye as he grins across the field at her.

"I accept," he answers, trying not to sound too eager. Probably failing.

Oh well.

The swords he has at hand aren't as finely-forged as hers, but they're perfectly serviceable weapons, and he selects one with the heaviest heft to it, naturally. "Swords only, then?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in challenge as he steps into the ring.

"Unless you're brave--or foolish--enough to face me with your hands only," she says with a grin that is entirely hers. Her pre-sparring bravado hasn't been lost, at least, and as she approaches him she gives the sword a few experimental swings. The metal sings through the air as she drops into a ready stance. Years of practice have not abandoned her, it seems.

"Shall we?"

Thor laughs, both because he absolutely could take her barehanded if allowed to use his lightning, and because that smile is so very Sif that for a moment it's as if she'd never lost her memories at all, reminding him of the days when they would take turns trouncing each other in the training yard.

As for Thor, his hand still longs for a hammer, but not just any hammer will do. A sword is better for now - familiar enough, but not as beloved, letting him focus far more on readjusting to the flow of combat than on his weapon. He might be rustier if not for the few hours of practice he's managed down in the cargo hold of the Statesman, his muscle memory recalling old lessons and patterns, and he shifts into a stance to mirror hers, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

"By all means," he answers, and lunges forward to strike.

The first few blows are more cautious, experimental, gauging his reach and her responses, and finding them both to be slightly off from what he recalls. His own weakness stands out to him more, however, having to swiftly guess how far he has to reach to meet her blade and sometimes guessing wrong. Though what he lacks in accuracy, he makes up for in persistence, striking again as soon as he knows he's missed.

In spite of all of her that's changed, Sif is very much herself in all the ways that matter. Her heart is the same, and, more importantly, her movements across the field of battle are the same. This is the dynamic they've always had: Thor is powerful but Sif is agile.

She darts in and out of his range of motion, and she doesn't hesitate to use his newly-monocular vision to her advantage. She spins and twirls, dodging strikes almost balletically and shifting to his right so she can jab him in his literal blind spot. A cheap shot, to be sure, but this is what he wanted. He has to relearn how to fight with his narrowed range of vision, so she exploits it whenever she sees an opportunity.

That isn't to say her form is perfect. While she hasn't lost her prowess, muscle memory alone isn't enough to replace centuries of training. There are gaps in her defenses, obvious to the experienced eye as mistakes that a young trainee might make. He lands blows to her side, her arm, and she has to remind herself to be more guarded.

Oof. He's too slow to turn and block, and receives a glancing blow on his right flank for his troubles, her sword extending her reach past what he can see of her, and he knocks her blade away too late. First point to Sif, then.

He's not one to dwell on his mistakes in the thick of battle, though, and swiftly counterattacks as he would've back in the training yards of Asgard, finding those cracks in her defense and exploiting them as best he can, his sword scraping along her armored side or sliding down her blade to strike at her wrist. Whether or not she says anything out loud, he can see her cursing herself for her inattention and devoting renewed attention to her form, pressing her advantage where his weakness is more obvious.

It's almost funny, that both of them are so hobbled that their decrease in skill is fairly matched, and Thor can't stop grinning at the irony so that he's not paying enough attention when she gets a solid blow in with the flat of her blade on his blind side, his cheekbone smarting from the impact. Ouch. Now who's not paying enough attention, Thor?

She grins at the look on his face when she lands that blow, dancing back out of his reach the next instant. More than anything, this feels like coming home. Sif feels a thrill in her blood as their blades ring upon impact. Thor is fearsome in his power, but she only charges in again and again.

She takes as many hits as she lands, of course. Thor is as skilled as he is strong, and it's the differences in their styles of fighting that really keep things interesting. On top of that, both of them have a nearly-terrifying amount of stamina--this fight could go on for hours, and Sif suspects they just might have in the past.

After a time, she decides to change the game up again. Her one sword becomes two, sliding open with a click and pulling apart at the hilt. She spins them with a flourish and tosses her braided hair. "Shall we try two instead?" she shouts across the field.

To Thor, it feels almost like a dance where he's forgotten a step here and there, comfortable and familiar until he stumbles off-rhythm. But that does little to lessen his enjoyment, and even when she strikes him hard enough to leave bruises, it doesn't stop him from grinning at a successful parry, or laughing when he manages to strike her in turn. It feels like home, golden and glorious and nostalgic, and for long moments at a time he can almost forget the roads that led them here and simply embrace the thrill of the fight.

After they've gotten almost too comfortable with the give-and-take of their spar, the added challenge of dual blades is a welcome one, and Thor idly wonders if it's muscle memory that guided her hand or if she'd discovered that her sword could do that by accident, but in the end it doesn't matter. "If you'll let me match you, then gladly," he calls back to her, already mentally decided on his second weapon before he even grabs it. None of his tiny armory matches, so he decides to mix things up even more by choosing a sturdy hand-axe, its curved blade possibly useful in disarming her of her blades, or vice versa if she remembers enough of her drills.

[IC, open to all] Thor Fight Club

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