[ Knives. He misses his knives, really, the familiar weight of them in his hands -- he knows the combat knives, and even without a gun he'd always been confident enough as long as he had at least one on him. As outclassed as he tended to be back in Freelancer, knives were a weapon he could sometimes actually best the others with. He wonders how different the ones from Lakshmi's world might be. Probably a different material, at the very least, not the titanium coating that most UNSC standard combat knives.
None of those here. This rapier will have to be his weapon, now, even if it's not as easily concealed, even if he doesn't know it like the back of his hand. Yet, he reminds himself. He'll train until he does. ]
Depends on the fight. [ The obvious answer. He turns the sword in his hand, just feeling the weight of it and how it balances against his palm even with the slightest turns of his wrist, watches light catch along the blade. He's so used to firearms, to combat knives with notches and custom grips, to weapons that he knows like the back of his hand and it'd still take him time to carefully break apart and disassemble in order to clean and maintain everything. This is just a sword. Metal, hammered and heated into shape ( as far as he knows, anyway ), forged into one simple purpose. The most ornate thing here is the hilt, and even then it's mostly spartan. It's different, but he likes that. Efficient. Elegant. He remembers the grace with which Lakshmi moves, even when she walks, when she'd fought that night out on the grounds, moments before when she had the sword in her hand and her apparent fatigue almost seemed to vanish.
Another testing jab, with more force behind it this time, shifting his weight forward as he does so, to test his reach. ]
Back home, we almost always fought armored, against armored opponents. [ A pause, bringing the sword close so he can run the fingers of his other hand along the flat of the blade. Even against armor of it's own time, he doubts this sword could do much against it, not if you tried to strike through it, but that's something he's used to, too. ] Our knives were specifically coated to be capable of piercing armor, but it was still almost always more effective to aim for the joints and seams. Against someone less skilled where I knew I could finish it quickly, I'd do it just that -- straight for the throat, straight for the belly, right under the chin up into the skull.
In other cases -- I'd usually watch how people move, strike anywhere between the armor that they exposed the most. Always keep moving, in and out. Strike where I could, inside the thigh, inside the arm, anywhere with a vulnerable artery or nerve. Work them down, wear them out, outlast them until I could finish it.
[ It feels like the rapier would work similarly, at least in the overall idea. Quick and efficient, much more nimble than the sword York had taken off the other Barrayan. He gives the sword another experimental swing, just watching it cut through the air, and that could probably cut something but he doubts it'd be much. He tries to move with it, again, another strike, another swing, shifting his foot, imagining an opponent in front of him, imagining the holographic targets flashing as they spun around him in the training room, imagining Carolina standing in front of him, gesturing him forward with a crook of his shoulder -- and he tries to move a bit too much, apparently, given the constraints of his robes, and Wash stumbles. He manages not to fall, reaches out to start to catch himself against some nearby shelf, but he's able to regain his footing without it.
A sigh, glancing back at Lakshmi. ]
Probably not quite like that. [ HE'LL GET BETTER . . . ]
no subject
None of those here. This rapier will have to be his weapon, now, even if it's not as easily concealed, even if he doesn't know it like the back of his hand. Yet, he reminds himself. He'll train until he does. ]
Depends on the fight. [ The obvious answer. He turns the sword in his hand, just feeling the weight of it and how it balances against his palm even with the slightest turns of his wrist, watches light catch along the blade. He's so used to firearms, to combat knives with notches and custom grips, to weapons that he knows like the back of his hand and it'd still take him time to carefully break apart and disassemble in order to clean and maintain everything. This is just a sword. Metal, hammered and heated into shape ( as far as he knows, anyway ), forged into one simple purpose. The most ornate thing here is the hilt, and even then it's mostly spartan. It's different, but he likes that. Efficient. Elegant. He remembers the grace with which Lakshmi moves, even when she walks, when she'd fought that night out on the grounds, moments before when she had the sword in her hand and her apparent fatigue almost seemed to vanish.
Another testing jab, with more force behind it this time, shifting his weight forward as he does so, to test his reach. ]
Back home, we almost always fought armored, against armored opponents. [ A pause, bringing the sword close so he can run the fingers of his other hand along the flat of the blade. Even against armor of it's own time, he doubts this sword could do much against it, not if you tried to strike through it, but that's something he's used to, too. ] Our knives were specifically coated to be capable of piercing armor, but it was still almost always more effective to aim for the joints and seams. Against someone less skilled where I knew I could finish it quickly, I'd do it just that -- straight for the throat, straight for the belly, right under the chin up into the skull.
In other cases -- I'd usually watch how people move, strike anywhere between the armor that they exposed the most. Always keep moving, in and out. Strike where I could, inside the thigh, inside the arm, anywhere with a vulnerable artery or nerve. Work them down, wear them out, outlast them until I could finish it.
[ It feels like the rapier would work similarly, at least in the overall idea. Quick and efficient, much more nimble than the sword York had taken off the other Barrayan. He gives the sword another experimental swing, just watching it cut through the air, and that could probably cut something but he doubts it'd be much. He tries to move with it, again, another strike, another swing, shifting his foot, imagining an opponent in front of him, imagining the holographic targets flashing as they spun around him in the training room, imagining Carolina standing in front of him, gesturing him forward with a crook of his shoulder -- and he tries to move a bit too much, apparently, given the constraints of his robes, and Wash stumbles. He manages not to fall, reaches out to start to catch himself against some nearby shelf, but he's able to regain his footing without it.
A sigh, glancing back at Lakshmi. ]
Probably not quite like that. [ HE'LL GET BETTER . . . ]