[Does he trust Fenris not to make a fool of himself in front of a court that'd spurn them both for the sake of a fine challenge?
Yes. Yes he does— and that goes beyond the fawning trust fostered from the awe long set in on arrival's heels: Cazador's court would be in ruins for the lightness in each step or every deliberate twist his body makes, as if he's come to know even his own musculature (let alone his veins, his blood— his weightless sense of balance) the way an artist hones his tools. Neither the work nor canvas, but the means, masterfully wielded.
He'll be fine.
So: cut his foot along the inside line, knee to inner knee. So: a tightening of his right thumb when it sinks into the channel of Fenris' palm, taking lead. So: square up with his left against the small of one muscular back (and try, try to remember how to breathe) as he smiles past his canines in warning. This is the moment before they play. Before they test just how well Fenris can keep up. Best be ready.]
I think I should warn you....
[The next song doesn't leap in so much as it flows. Smoother than a river, yet give credit to the acoustics that he can hear himself speak over the pleasant din. (Rivaini? Antivan? Closer to a tango than a waltz.) Its tempo drives him forwards; quickens his steps; straightens his spine and rounds his neck so that when he stops to spin them both into a dip, he can whisper to the patterns in silver metal:]
....I am much better at dancing than I am fighting.
[Amongst other things, unimportant to this sparring.]
no subject
Yes. Yes he does— and that goes beyond the fawning trust fostered from the awe long set in on arrival's heels: Cazador's court would be in ruins for the lightness in each step or every deliberate twist his body makes, as if he's come to know even his own musculature (let alone his veins, his blood— his weightless sense of balance) the way an artist hones his tools. Neither the work nor canvas, but the means, masterfully wielded.
He'll be fine.
So: cut his foot along the inside line, knee to inner knee. So: a tightening of his right thumb when it sinks into the channel of Fenris' palm, taking lead. So: square up with his left against the small of one muscular back (and try, try to remember how to breathe) as he smiles past his canines in warning. This is the moment before they play. Before they test just how well Fenris can keep up. Best be ready.]
I think I should warn you....
[The next song doesn't leap in so much as it flows. Smoother than a river, yet give credit to the acoustics that he can hear himself speak over the pleasant din. (Rivaini? Antivan? Closer to a tango than a waltz.) Its tempo drives him forwards; quickens his steps; straightens his spine and rounds his neck so that when he stops to spin them both into a dip, he can whisper to the patterns in silver metal:]
....I am much better at dancing than I am fighting.
[Amongst other things, unimportant to this sparring.]