There's no reason to hesitate over the answer, but Derrica stalls for a moment anyway, studying his face. Her hand closes over the worn grip of the proffered stave, without trying to draw it away from him.
"Yes."
It isn't a thing to be embellished. There's no need to mention the hushed, panicky whispers she and Richard had shared, outlining the risk, or the moments spared to knit back together what Richard's spell had torn asunder. She isn't even certain it's a thing to be praised for, what she'd done in a dream.
And even so, it wasn't a thing done for praise or gratitude. It was simply the right thing, as far as she was concerned.
And moves out more towards the centre of the ground, earth compressed beneath his boots, patches of frost unmelting in the frigid morning. His expression had been one of acceptance, that tinge of regret—for all of it—still a shadow behind it. But she has offered him a means of repair. He means to accept it.
He balances the staff between both hands, a nod that gestures her to come out here with him if she hasn't already done so. "You were quick with your Barrier," he says. "And you're a skilled caster. What do you consider to be your weaknesses?"
At his nod, Derrica follows after. Facing him, she mirrors the way Marcus holds his staff, focusing on that for a moment while she sorts through the kneejerk insecurities his question stirs up.
It's difficult to tell, even now, what was a deficiency in her and what was simply being outmatched by his abilities.
"I'm...limited, I think, in what I can do. Lightening wasn't working, but I didn't have anything else to fall back on."
All her healing magic wouldn't do her any good in a fight like that.
"I haven't fought other mages that way," she admits. "I felt like I was scrambling, not doing anything intentionally."
Marcus listens, patient, approval slow but gradual as she ably outlines her limitations. There is an assuring pattern to this that even he from within can feel himself fall into, the way it distracts him, the piqued interest in the forming of a lesson. It quiets the way he remembers having knocked her down, the feeling of gathering strength as he raised his staff.
(Still, the endless debate: had he truly hesitated? Or had he been lining up the blow? He doesn't remember, he wishes he did.)
"Some mages swear by learning varied magics," he hears himself saying. Returning to the present. "It isn't a bad strategy, really. If faced with a monstrous entity of fire, then my fire does little good against it. If faced with another mage—"
He tips his head.
"I find focus in my limitations, that way. In understanding all that fire and rock and ash can do, and all that I can do with it. To conjure lightening is to conjure with great speed. To conjure light that blinds an opponent, or pain that forces them to drop their weapon. To scare a horse, or distract. However."
Marcus shifts his stance a little, adopting something more defensive and ready, "In conditioning yourself to avoid the scramble, I find sparring a suitable way to begin." Nothing like being forced to think fast when someone is about to crack your head open. He remembers that too.
It's not Marcus' fault that she thinks, for a split second, of him rushing toward her with his stave out and feels her mouth go dry.
"Will you go slowly?" stings to ask, but the necessity of it can't be denied. She tries to soften it as she attempts to mirror his stance, adding, "This is new to me. Fighting with staves."
That information can't be news to him, not after that fight. If she'd known how to do more than cast with her staff, she might have fallen back on it then.
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"Yes."
It isn't a thing to be embellished. There's no need to mention the hushed, panicky whispers she and Richard had shared, outlining the risk, or the moments spared to knit back together what Richard's spell had torn asunder. She isn't even certain it's a thing to be praised for, what she'd done in a dream.
And even so, it wasn't a thing done for praise or gratitude. It was simply the right thing, as far as she was concerned.
no subject
And moves out more towards the centre of the ground, earth compressed beneath his boots, patches of frost unmelting in the frigid morning. His expression had been one of acceptance, that tinge of regret—for all of it—still a shadow behind it. But she has offered him a means of repair. He means to accept it.
He balances the staff between both hands, a nod that gestures her to come out here with him if she hasn't already done so. "You were quick with your Barrier," he says. "And you're a skilled caster. What do you consider to be your weaknesses?"
no subject
It's difficult to tell, even now, what was a deficiency in her and what was simply being outmatched by his abilities.
"I'm...limited, I think, in what I can do. Lightening wasn't working, but I didn't have anything else to fall back on."
All her healing magic wouldn't do her any good in a fight like that.
"I haven't fought other mages that way," she admits. "I felt like I was scrambling, not doing anything intentionally."
no subject
(Still, the endless debate: had he truly hesitated? Or had he been lining up the blow? He doesn't remember, he wishes he did.)
"Some mages swear by learning varied magics," he hears himself saying. Returning to the present. "It isn't a bad strategy, really. If faced with a monstrous entity of fire, then my fire does little good against it. If faced with another mage—"
He tips his head.
"I find focus in my limitations, that way. In understanding all that fire and rock and ash can do, and all that I can do with it. To conjure lightening is to conjure with great speed. To conjure light that blinds an opponent, or pain that forces them to drop their weapon. To scare a horse, or distract. However."
Marcus shifts his stance a little, adopting something more defensive and ready, "In conditioning yourself to avoid the scramble, I find sparring a suitable way to begin." Nothing like being forced to think fast when someone is about to crack your head open. He remembers that too.
no subject
It's not Marcus' fault that she thinks, for a split second, of him rushing toward her with his stave out and feels her mouth go dry.
"Will you go slowly?" stings to ask, but the necessity of it can't be denied. She tries to soften it as she attempts to mirror his stance, adding, "This is new to me. Fighting with staves."
That information can't be news to him, not after that fight. If she'd known how to do more than cast with her staff, she might have fallen back on it then.