sixthiterationlogs | make the choice to choose

WHO: Ashley Magnus
WHERE: South Village, by the water
WHEN: random Mornings throughout the month
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Updated as needed

un: magnus

One more day of this normal routine and I'm going to fucking lose it. South Village. By the mill. Sparring partners needed before I go fucking nuts without work. Any morning from dawn until lunchish.

Ashley never thought about how much of her life was spent constantly on the go. Even in her downtime, she realized she wasn't likely to sit around long, coming up with reasons to get out and move. It's a restlessness that she took for granted when she had the Sanctuary work to do, and an entire city to traverse. Not to mention abnormals to contain, especially with the uptick because of the Cabal before this place.

Now if this place is Cabal or not, she doesn't know, but if it is, they already know what she's capable of so there's reason to hide it.

Mornings start with a run, heading out further each day, taking new routes, trying to not only learn this place but learn every path she might need for any reason. Not to mention the creatures, the resources, anything to keep her on her toes and know what she might need no matter what happens.

By the mill she practices with the few weapons she's gathered, using them in various ways so she knows the heft and weight of them in case. Everything is in case, even if here she has no idea in case of what. There's only so much a person can practice alone, so she hopes sending out that message will draw a few people to practice against. Will keep her on point, not to mention meaning she could get a chance to know more of those here. It's already been eye opening, and she's curious what else this place holds.

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"You got it," she says, smiling widely, definitely excited by the possibility. "I was never raised to be gentle, which I'm sure there's a flaw in there somewhere but..." She shrugs. Whatever.

Warmed up from her run, she bounces on the balls of her feet before moving to take braid she's wearing and twists it up into a knot so it's not a hand hold on her hair.

"Where'd you learn to fight?"

"I was taught to fight from the moment I could hold a practice knife," he answered, "in the village of Masyaf - specifically, the citadel. I was trained as a fidāʼī of the Nizari Ismaili." And with that, he told her more than he'd told anyone else. It was, as had become usual, not the entire truth; he had decided to wait to speak the word 'assassin' until he was certain there were no Templars present. As yet, he couldn't be sure. Though he had spoken his name enough. It was likely any Templars already knew who he was and were planning to strike. But he wouldn't give them fuel for the fire.

"And you? Where did you learn?" He asked it even as he sank into a fighting stance, feet braced, knees bent - on guard and ready to parry.

"Damn, and I thought my training started early," she chuckles, not the least bit put off by that. Actually, her voice a bit higher then, excitement there for a chance to learn things she's never known before. "The Middle East. Well then. I admit, I know Masyaf and the rest, except for the position," she admits, head canting, curious.

Moving in closer, balanced in her stance, knowing her size is always a disadvantage but one she uses as best she can.

"My mom taught me since I was about... I guess I was maybe eight? I realized recently it's because she saw something in me and knew she needed to channel it."

Like the fact that she showed her father's blood as well as her mother's and without a way to handle that aggression she could go the same path as he had.

"I get the feeling I'm going to get schooled here," she admits, amusement lacing her tones.

Her size reminded him of Maria. She had been a capable fighter when they'd met, his future wife matching him blow for blow with her sword, just as she had continued to do once they'd married. She was a more than competent sparring partner, and the two of them had taught their sons well. For a moment, the nostalgia washed over him, putting a four-decade old ache into his face before he placed it gently back where it belonged: in the past.

"Perhaps we will teach each other," he said, and then he moved.

Having had time to plan, to prepare himself, the movement was smooth, easy, and most importantly, fast. He'd said not to go easy on her, and this wasn't easy. What it was was a gauge of her ability. His hand, specifically his right, shot out, grabbing for her arm as he stepped forward. From there, he twisted, pulled, and struck with one foot to bring her to her knees, pinned by the arm he held. His left hand was not immobile during it all, instead finding a place at the join of neck and shoulder, knuckles pressed against skin almost feather-light. Likely she wouldn't know what that meant. It was enough that he did.

From moment one, Ashley knew she is going to be learning from this, but she's excited by that as well. Not fighting his motions, letting him twist her and bring her down to one knee. Except even as she went down, she is moving.

Feeling the press of his hand to her neck, pivoting on her down knee as she twists her weight down and over to use his own hold to pull him off balance. Letting the motion lay her down as best she can so that she can bring her leg up in a sharp kick, aiming for his hip.

Even as she does, she chuckles thinking about his comments when they first met of being so old and here she is trying to break his hip. It shouldn't be funny, but to Ashley it is.

If she had been one of his students, he would have applauded. It was a good move. It would have brought down a Crusader, not used to such things.

But he was an Assassin.

An old Assassin, whose mind had grown used to Juno's words instead of the world around him. Her toe caught him as he had his moment's thought before he'd started to move, to spin out of her reach. It affirmed something that had been in the back of his mind for some time: what he needed was to stop thinking and just react.

The movement had his blood pumping again, his nerves awake. He was alive after so long feeling himself die by inches, and though she was the only one smiling, he was wearing a look of satisfaction around his eyes. All it did was make their yellow more vivid.

And then he was moving again, taking hold of her foot before it could fall too far, lifting, catching her knee in one hand, and pressing forward, using his own body as leverage. His shoulder, his body weight - it would make him hard to throw, especially with only one leg able to gain purchase on the ground.

make the choice to choose

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