02-16-2010, 09:42 PM
Nooo, you are fine. <3
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He was glad that she was interested—usually everyone was so off-put with his age that they refused to listen to whatever he had to say. Snake often believed that he could help when it came to fighting. Most people fought for short periods of time in their lives; maybe it equated to one total month by the end, if you put it all together. Snake might have only been alive for one year, but most of that year was spent fighting for his life every day. It was not an exaggeration. He had been under intense scrutiny in New Haven, and the months between him being an infant and him escaping were the toughest of his life. Snake never put stock in age. Time was variable, depending on what you did with it. He may only be a yearling, but he felt ancient sometimes. Such was the aspect of the warrior in some ways.
The coyote caught a glimpse of more intense interest—or fear?—when he drew the pistol from his pocket. He fought back a flash of a smile; she didn't have to worry. Despite all his best efforts, the thing was still refusing to work. Snake kept half for sentimental reasons (after seeing Patriot's extremely limited armory, he had always wanted a firearm for himself, working or not) and half because he wanted to fix it at one point. He was just about as knowledgeable about the pistol as a monkey was an iPod, but he would figure out eventually. He hoped.
The Hydra dipped his head respectively when she spoke, pleased that she had gleaned at least some use from his small lesson. Maybe when she found herself in a bad situation later, she could direct her attacks towards those points and gain a little bit of an advantage. Snake didn't find it hard to best opponents that were bigger than him because of it—the older Kaena might find a similar advantage. He was interested to learn that she fought similar to how he did—watching and waiting before striking. Snake remembered how Patriot had put it—in the wild, the rattlesnake warns, but does not run out to attack anyone. He simply lets them come close enough, lets them underestimate him, and then he strikes. It was deceitful and deadly—in that way, Snake was very much like a snake.
This made him have to decide, though: who would attack first? Usually Snake would just wait and wait until his opponent did, but that seemed disrespectful to him. Though it naturally went against the grain of his training, he could force himself into a preemptive strike. It didn't mean that it was colored any different than how he usually fought, though. He gave a sympathetic nod to her final assertion, but half-way through the motion he slid forward. Snake was a solid guy—neither tall nor very broad, but built tough. He always made sure he could move faster than one would think he could. He slashed towards the most generic area he could think of—where the collarbone met the throat. It was a test; he wanted to see what she would do, how fast her reflexes were. His olive eyes were keen, watching for all the details. One could tell that he was in his element.
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He was glad that she was interested—usually everyone was so off-put with his age that they refused to listen to whatever he had to say. Snake often believed that he could help when it came to fighting. Most people fought for short periods of time in their lives; maybe it equated to one total month by the end, if you put it all together. Snake might have only been alive for one year, but most of that year was spent fighting for his life every day. It was not an exaggeration. He had been under intense scrutiny in New Haven, and the months between him being an infant and him escaping were the toughest of his life. Snake never put stock in age. Time was variable, depending on what you did with it. He may only be a yearling, but he felt ancient sometimes. Such was the aspect of the warrior in some ways.
The coyote caught a glimpse of more intense interest—or fear?—when he drew the pistol from his pocket. He fought back a flash of a smile; she didn't have to worry. Despite all his best efforts, the thing was still refusing to work. Snake kept half for sentimental reasons (after seeing Patriot's extremely limited armory, he had always wanted a firearm for himself, working or not) and half because he wanted to fix it at one point. He was just about as knowledgeable about the pistol as a monkey was an iPod, but he would figure out eventually. He hoped.
The Hydra dipped his head respectively when she spoke, pleased that she had gleaned at least some use from his small lesson. Maybe when she found herself in a bad situation later, she could direct her attacks towards those points and gain a little bit of an advantage. Snake didn't find it hard to best opponents that were bigger than him because of it—the older Kaena might find a similar advantage. He was interested to learn that she fought similar to how he did—watching and waiting before striking. Snake remembered how Patriot had put it—in the wild, the rattlesnake warns, but does not run out to attack anyone. He simply lets them come close enough, lets them underestimate him, and then he strikes. It was deceitful and deadly—in that way, Snake was very much like a snake.
This made him have to decide, though: who would attack first? Usually Snake would just wait and wait until his opponent did, but that seemed disrespectful to him. Though it naturally went against the grain of his training, he could force himself into a preemptive strike. It didn't mean that it was colored any different than how he usually fought, though. He gave a sympathetic nod to her final assertion, but half-way through the motion he slid forward. Snake was a solid guy—neither tall nor very broad, but built tough. He always made sure he could move faster than one would think he could. He slashed towards the most generic area he could think of—where the collarbone met the throat. It was a test; he wanted to see what she would do, how fast her reflexes were. His olive eyes were keen, watching for all the details. One could tell that he was in his element.