Myrika is by Kiri!

The tan-furred coyote leapt forward again, swinging a clawed fist toward Ithiel. It was balled up as to deaden the impact, but it did not matter -- where she aimed to connect there was only empty space, and Ithiel danced away, stopping a few feet from her. It had astonished Myrika when she first found Ithiel's countenance broken out into a wide grin, his red eyes bright and almost merry with excitement. Sparring brought a good mood out in her cousin, it seemed, and even a foe inexperienced and clumsy as herself provided entertainment for him.

When they started, the red-haired woman had not attempted to hit Ithiel with any sort of force. He had chided her viciously, urging her to strike at him with her full capability. She had hesitated still, even after his chastising, but the red-haired woman was soon swinging in earnest. It had been some time since then, and she had not hit Ithiel yet. Where she moved to strike, he disappeared -- and he was not even moving to land his own blows. The red-haired woman was growing steadily frustrated and steadily exhausted, and it showed -- an ugly snarl had drawn her lips back, and her ears were folded back into her curled red hair almost completely.

She charged Ithiel flat-out, both arms in front of her, and he sidestepped her, their shoulders just barely brushing as the Praetorian tried to strike. Snarling, Myrika turned and swung, only to completely overshoot her mark and end up sprawling in the snow. Ithiel hadn't so much as moved, and now he looked over her, all evidence of his grin disappeared. Stop? he asked, slim coyote's head tilted to one side.

Stop, she agreed, sitting up. She did not yet stand; instead, she placed her arms on both her knees and let out a long breath, trying to steady the rapidity of her breathing and heart to no avail. She looked at her cousin with almost baleful blue-green eyes as he settled to his haunches beside her. Neither of them seemed to mind the snow much, it seemed. The cover was light enough, anyway -- it was not as if the temperature was wickedly cold. On the contrary, their winter had been mild.

Ithiel is by Kitty!

Ithiel regarded his red-haired cousin coolly. Their breath was coming quickly, big silvery clouds rising in the sharp morning air, but neither of them had shed a drop of blood. Ithiel had not accidentally hurt someone while sparring in his lifetime, but even so, he was careful. He preferred training with men, but his cousin had asked him in earnest to help her learn how to fight and defend the clan. This was an improvement over her sulky moroseness -- at least that had seemed to go from Myrika, though she hadn't completely returned to her usual brightness.

I could step around you all day, he told her, flatly. You're too obvious when you move, and you're not taking proper advantage of your size. Keep jumping around and darting all over the place, and you'll get tired a lot faster than me, the man said, reaching out to deliver a poke to the tawny shoulder of his cousin, hard red eyes catching her own for a brief moment before he looked away again. Don't get all flustered, he said, a rather commanding tone for one ranked beneath Myri, but she never took advantage of her rank -- Ithiel had figured out on his own he was essentially free to do as he liked in her presence. This was something he was not accustomed to in his betters, though the dusty coyote did not take advantage too frequently, nor was he indiscreet about it.

You, he said, settling to his rear with a grunt, are a tall lady. Use it to your advantage, like my skinniness, he said, pinching his side to show there was little enough to pinch. Her gaze was sharp and angry -- cold fire burned in her pale blue eyes, but Ithiel met them earnestly, shaking his head. Get over it -- you want to fight and defend Inferni. How are you going to do that if the time comes for you to defend the clan and you're worried about how you look?

Myrika is by Kiri!

Though anger simmered somewhere inside her, the tawny-hued woman knew her cousin spoke the truth. She was clearly more tired than he was, though their physical exercise was comparable -- they were both scouts, and where Ithiel seemed to simply possess a muscular frame, Myrika had toned her own muscles through hard work with her horses and long months of living in Inferni, caring for the sheep, and working on her leather. Her arms in particular were well-defined, and her shoulders bulky. They drooped now, and the woman's anger turned sour in her mouth.

It's not something you just get over, she said, quietly. Her ears were pinned back against her head now, lost in the mahogany tangle of her hair. She'd tied it back for the fight, but the motion had jiggled most of it loose again. Now, her hands went to the ponytail and pulled lose the leather strap, shaking out her hair with one hand. Ithiel gazed at her with those surprisingly red eyes, and Myrika returned his gaze defiantly. You don't, she said, confidently. You don't understand anything of emotion. She offered this kindly enough, but she did not think she needed to soften the blow. It was unlikely her cousin would be offended by such a remark.

Go on, he prompted, his head cocked to the side. Will you tell me what use a soldier has for emotion, while you're at it? Though the words stung, the tone with which he spoke indicated the man hadn't intended them to be quite so acerbic. Myrika offered him a sweet sort of smile, and extended one finger to prod at his shoulder. What if your leader tells you to slaughter women and children? An emotionless soldier would do it, she said.

Ithiel is by Kitty!

The dusky coyote looked at her with shock, his head still cocked to one side. Now, however, his jaw was hanging slightly ajar, and there was a look of earnest contemplation across his face. Though he liked his cousin well enough, her propensity to engage him in such questions was irritable, at best. He had come here to help her achieve better fighting skill and therefore better the defenses of the entire clan. A Praetorian unaccustomed to fighting and the ways of war was no use at all, and Ithiel wished to impart his own knowledge on Myrika. She insisted upon prodding him with hypotheticals, however, and the man now looked irritated. Will you tell me what this has to do with anything? I'm mostly worried about what it has to do with training you, he admonished.

Myrika's amusement deepened, contrary to the dusty coyote's expectations. Well? he demanded, crossing both arms over his chest. What does it have to do with training you? he asked, ears laid flat with annoyance. The ridge of his hair between them stuck up wildly, having lost some of its straightness with their fighting. This cousin began to laugh, and Ithiel stood angrily. If this is what you want to do, keep at it. he said, turning and making to walk away from her. To hell with her, then, he thought, but he paused as she called his name and asked him to come back. Turning around, the man regarded her with a flat expression, his reddish eyes searching over her a moment. Finally, he returned, settling back down to the snow with a grunt.

I'm trying to train you, too, you know, she said, her voice soft and free of laughter now. Up here, she said, tapping her skull. Ithiel snorted, but before he could speak, she cut him off. You never answered -- what would you do if your leader told you to kill women and children? she repeated, rephrasing the question and cocking a brow at him. The dark man sighed heavily and thought about it.

I would not have to obey his command, he said. If he wants it done, he'll do it himself, the man said, grimacing. I would not stain my hands with innocent blood.

Myrika is by Kiri!

The woman grinned, for he'd answered as she expected. So you'd be a traitor to your commander? she inquired, innocently enough. He'd told her previously he was bound to obey any command issued by his rightful authority -- in this case, Inferni's leadership, she supposed -- and here he refuted this with his own words. Ithiel looked at her sharply, lifting his lip to show a tooth.

Yes, but I don't think I'd serve a commander who'd issue that kind of ord--

Say you did, the woman interjected. You'd be a traitor to your commander, because you don't want to spill the blood of innocents. Why not? Myrika's inquiry was earnest, and she'd stopped playing with the little leather thing she'd used to hold back her hair. Ithiel's look of contemplation was one she appreciated -- too often, she thought that flat look meant he was not thinking at all, simply waiting for his next command -- and all too frequently, it seemed he expected her to command her. She wished he'd see the value in a soldier capable of thinking for himself, but he had been heavily indoctrinated, it seemed.

Dishonorable, he said, disdain apparent in his voice. They're not foes to be slaughtered. So it has nothing at all to do with emotion. There was pride in his voice -- he thought he'd figured out her game. She continued to grin, however, and tilted her own head to the side, regarding him with bright turquoise eyes.

So, what if your commander has your brother? He says he'll kill your brother if you don't kill the innocent little women and children. She was stretching the hyperbole, of course, but she was genuinely interested in his response, as well as convinced the exercise was worthwhile. For his part, Ithiel appeared strained, though whether this was in effort of keeping himself from walking away again or thinking, Myri could not say.

My brother would have to die, he said, frowning. But... the man appeared troubled, and glanced up at her with carnelian-hued eyes, ears laid flat against his head. I don't... think... I could do that to Aemon, he added quietly, his voice full of hesitation.

Myri's smile was knowing, and she peered at him with turquoise eyes that were curious now. You'd never forgive yourself either way, right? Brother or innocents, she said. So you do have emotion, she said, though the woman did not laugh. She wasn't sure if Ithiel was aware of such nuances in his mind and beliefs, and she did not wish to make a mockery of them. Naive as she was in her worldview, she earnestly believed her cousin's was worse off -- simplistic as it was, Ithiel was bound to encounter some shortcomings in his thinking.

Ithiel is by Kitty!

Her questions were frequently of such a disturbing nature -- pitting one distasteful option against another, equally distasteful option and forcing him to choose. The dusky coyote had at first found such behavior childish, but he was beginning to see the point of her game. He looked at her with morose crimson eyes, seeming almost to glower at the red-haired woman. I never said I did not have emotion, he protested, his gaze moving toward the snow between them. It was beaten down into the earth and brown in patches where the underlying mud had come up.

Of course not, she said, and not in an unkindly way. But you try to act like you don't have emotion, and therefore can't understand anyone else's. Ithiel's frown deepened, and the coyote peered at her with something akin to disagreement on his face. As he opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head. You do, she insisted. And maybe you really do feel you don't get anybody else's emotions, but it's not that hard, she said, shrugging a shoulder. Nobody's really good at it anyway, we're all just fakers.

The dust-colored coyote drew in a breath, regarding her with those strikingly red eyes. They were the color of blood, and just now they were shadowed with doubt. So why can't you just get over this... your... he faltered, hanging his head in an uncharacteristic gesture of something akin to defeat. If she truly thought he was capable of understanding the motivations and restraints of others, she was sorely mistaken. He was stunted and withered, meant for a soldier's life -- there was no love and no family in his future. He was meant to die young or fight until he was too old and broken to consider a life of normality.

Myrika is by Kiri!

The red-haired hybrid knew all about where Ithiel had grown up. While the man was hesitant to speak on personal subjects, he was not shy where it came to Scintilla -- he had, after all, given her more information than she could have dreamed possible about the practice of hanging skulls from their borders. His perspective on that practice was useful, but perhaps not entirely relevant to Inferni. She had taken it into consideration nonetheless, and included it as a footnote in the historical book she'd been writing tirelessly. It was nearly done -- she had nearly arrived at the present day, and she was just some weeks off from finally finishing, or so she hoped.

The woman inhaled a sharp breath, considering. She did not know whether the dust-colored coyote was inquiring because he thought it was expected of him -- she did not expect it of him, but perhaps politeness dictated he ask -- or because he was genuinely interested. I grew up on the outskirts of a village. It wasn't really a pack. There were coyotes and wolves and hybrids there -- I know how you feel about wolves, don't make that face -- but we weren't really members of the group. She shrugged, finally tying the little leather strap around her wrist. She ran the opposite hand through her hair several times, grimacing now herself.

I had friends when I was little, but as I was growing up... well, I'm not pretty now, but it was worse then. My ears were too big for my head, and my paws, too, she said, laughing nervously. Now she looked straight at the ground in front of her, frowning. My friends stopped playing with me and were soon... not my friends, she said, fidgeting. They made fun of me a lot. This last was spoken quietly, and she shrugged her shoulders.

Ithiel is by Kitty!

Ithiel looked at her, though he masked his incredulity as best he could. He did not understand, first and foremost, why one with such skills as Myri had would be concerned with appearance. He truly did not comprehend this anxiety of his cousin's, and it must have shown on his face, somehow, for her own look sharpened. Ithiel tried to speak at the same time she did,, but her voice drowned out his own, and he acquiesced his voice to the lady's quickly enough.

You don't understand that? she demanded. It hurts to have friends turn their backs on you, hurts worse to have them purposefully try to harm you, she said, her voice rising with anger. Ithiel reached out a cautious hand and placed it on her forearm. He did not like to touch others without permission and in general, really, but he wished to soothe the sharpness that had risen in her voice, and he saw no other way.

No, he said, quietly. I don't understand why an adult would allow children to hold them back so. I don't understand why one with the skills you have -- horses, writing and reading, your leather-work -- would be burdened by the taunts of children from years past. There was uncharacteristic gentleness in his voice, and the anger on the tawny coyote's face drained away slowly. I am your cousin and I cannot call you pretty, but you are not ugly, either, he said, shifting his weight awkwardly. God forbid she gets the wrong idea, he thought. He was not at all versed in the ways of women, and the last thing he wanted to do was fend off an advance from Myrika. Why do you let them trouble you so much? he asked. I truly do not understand.

Myrika is by Kiri!

His words of praise astonished her, and she peered at him with mounting suspicion, though he'd spoken with such gentleness -- the tawny woman considered him a long time, and Ithiel refused to meet her gaze throughout this time, directing his carnelian-hued eyes off to the distance, away from her. She believed he truly did not understand, but she still wanted him to understand.

It's not -- them. It's just hard to shake, that's all, she said, groping for a reason. In truth, she could not explain why she allowed the children of Thornloe -- adults now, but children in her mind still -- to pin her in her place still. Thanks, though, she added, shrugging. I didn't think you'd value skills like that... I mean, you're so good at what you do, she said, frowning. What he did was scout -- and kill. The arrow he'd shot into the side of Halo's attacker proved that well enough, though it was her jaws that had dealt the killing blow.

What I do is different from what you do is different from what Ezekiel does is different from what Vesper does, he offered. Skills are meant to be different from one to the other to better the whole. You know that, he said, a rare smile crossing his dust-colored muzzle. Ezekiel has taught you that much, I hope, he added, more of a grumble this time. Myrika peered at him quizzically, but did not pry. Ezekiel taught her a great many things since her arrival in Inferni, but she saw no reason he should seek to educate her specifically.

Why, though? Leave childhood taunts in the past. I encountered a bully or two in Scintilla, early on in my training. I put them down. You did not -- if you fought them, would you feel better? It was a question she would ask, and she gave him a small smile. Her response was delayed, however -- her first instinct was to dismiss the idea entirely. Why should she feel better for fighting her tormentors? Upon turning the idea more, she found she rather liked it.

Maybe.