Welcome to Gaia! ::

While Joy was growing increasingly fond of Odainsaker - namely through the medium of growing increasingly fond of Neona - she had just about had her fill of anything that might push her into a role that resembled anything like a teacher or - god forbid - a mentor.

This had grown into such a disgust since being saddled with Maus that she was now shying away from even ideas as benign as sparring practice, or something else that resembled any kind of structured pursuit of improvement, even if it put her on an equal footing. When, therefore, Odainsaker had made it sound like she might want to familiarize herself with the changes in her weapon in a safe environment, Joy had been more than happy to shrug it off and move past it, until it occurred to her that she might have the satisfaction of doing someone a kindness without inconveniencing herself, and also satisfy another desire of hers: to keep Maus busy with something productive, so that he'd be too tired to keep himself busy with self-destruction.

Which is how it ended up, on this particular night, that Maus had found himself scheduled, with only a cursory gesture towards his own consent on the topic, to meet with Odain in an empty field on the outskirts of the City, where he strolled up with a cigarette in one hand and his weapon swinging idly from the other. No Chaos signatures about; nothing to derail him or Odainsaker, whom he expected to see at any moment and whose name he only vaguely recognized from a drunk toast at Tempesti's lantern festival, as remembered through his own haze of drink. Apparently something interesting had happened to Odainsaker's weapon, which he was to dutifully ask questions about, something he only half-planned on doing.

Not that he'd minded, really, being given something to do, although he'd made a show of being disgruntled about it because he suspected it made Joy happy to impose on him and he was willing to indulge her. It was always a pleasure to meet someone new, and always a pleasure to be able to get a little movement in, although the gifted gym membership was doing something to make this urge a little less desperate than it had been. He was early - early on purpose, to get a smoke in - and hauled himself up onto a low concrete wall to await the arrival of Odainsaker.

"Odainsaker, I take it," he agreed, reaching over to put his cigarette out on the wall and - unfortunately - leaving it there. He slid down to his feet as he said it, already approaching to put out a hand - probably still smelled like smoke, but such was life - and giving her an easy, beaming, boyish smile. "Joy didn't do a very good job of filling me in, but I take it you're looking for a punching bag that can offer feedback." This, very cheerfully, as if he was quite prepared for the role.

"It's gotta be better than nothing. Well," he amended, "maybe the martial artists. I don't know if you ought to be taking combat advice from LARPers."

He eyed the staff as he said it, not especially looking forward to the inevitable moment when he caught that thing in the ribs but also - it must be said - not not looking forward to it.

"My weapon is more - not even defensive. I'm not sure what good it is," he said, somewhere between wry and chagrined, and he lifted an unassuming looking leather pouch that was strapped to his wrist. "But don't let that stop you."

He did leave out that he had other means at his disposal. He also left out the fact that he'd spent a lot of his life recreationally punching people. There was probably something valuable to be taught here, starting with: assume the worst of everyone.

Well, if anyone was qualified to teach someone that, it was him.

He dropped down into a more combat-ready posture, and extended his hand again, as if to formally invite her to jump in with a sportsmanlike handshake. "Shall we?" he asked, cheerfully.

It seemed as though she was, in fact, falling for a trap. To be fair, he did give her a very companionable, sportsmanlike, friendly handshake. Also, to be fair, he was grinning. It was just that he didn't let go of her afterwards, and instead tried to give her arm an abrupt yank, foot sweeping out on the side that had no staff to block him in an attempt to ankle check her and bring her to the ground.

Whether or not that worked, he still tried to keep a grip on her hand. The great shortcoming of having a big stick to hit someone with was that it's hard to use it on someone right next to you; the great strategy to being a squirrely little a*****e with quick fists was making sure you stayed close.

"If God gives you a weapon like that, you should heed His implied advice and keep your distance," he suggested cheerfully.

Having been underestimated, he fell into the trap of immediately, in turn, underestimating her. Had she not fallen first he might not have gone down, but feeling a little smug and actually on the point of helping her back up, he found himself in the dirt with her, startled into releasing his hold on her in the same moment, although he almost immediately scrambled to try and grab her ankle instead.

Maus, unfortunately, had the instincts and muscle memory of someone for whom fighting was both recreation and vital survival, and therefore fought dirty. It was not dignified nor knightly nor even sportsmanlike to make a grab for someone's foot. It was the sort of thing you did when you were fumbling around drunk in a street somewhere because someone thought (correctly) that you'd been hitting on their girlfriend and didn't have enough drinks in them to ignore the fact that she'd been laughing with you. It was the sort of thing you did right before, say, kneeing someone in the gut, or maybe throwing dirt in their eyes if things were dire enough.

Still, he wasn't unaware of the situation, having a little laugh himself.

Take heart, Odainsaker: your opponent isn't especially graceful either, or dignified.

"Ow," he said, rolling away likewise to rub his head. "Yikes." And then, cheerfully: "Good arm on you." Well, whether Neona or Joy would approve, it was clear that Maus did. Not that she knew it, but this was a man who'd had to resort to beating a wolf with a tree stake like it was a dirty rug a couple of months ago. Whatever worked.

He was on his feet with a distressingly athletic sort of quickness - it appeared he might be one of those soft-edged mousey boy-men who nonetheless had a streak of activity in them - and circling her warily, his eyes not on her but on the end of the stick, clearly trying to gauge whether he could keep himself out of reach of it. Normally he'd be busy trying to get up close to her again to keep her from being able to use it at all, but no sense in laboring the point in what was supposed to be a friendly and somewhat educational spar. "What does it do?" he asked. "Besides headaches."

(He was thinking, with a sudden irrational hope, of Lete. Maybe it did something like that. Wouldn't that be nice?)

He had been, in that moment, all cheerful tension, bouncing on his heels in excited anticipation of another lunge from one side or another.

It drained out of him, his limbs going slack, his hand falling to his side and the weapon with it. He had not, actually, expected something like Lete. It had not occurred to him that it might be somewhat common to attack you with what made you feel good, rather than awful, and he had therefore been wholly unprepared for it when it came. He only stood and let it surge over him, his eyes glassy and sightless.

He remembered, dimly, what had happened with Lete - remembered that the sensation had suddenly tipped up and become unbearable. Some coherent part of him cynically observed that the excess of what he was currently experiencing had been what he was after when he'd thrown himself on the mercy of Order, and that maybe he'd have it at last. But there was something too pristine here to stand a second corruption, even momentarily. He needed it to end before it became, as it had before, terrible. Or worse, before it became perfect, and was then snatched away from him.

"Please," he said after a long few seconds, his voice strangled and quiet, closing his eyes. "Stop doing that."

He cleared his throat, stepping back a couple of paces and fighting to regain composure, and he laughed - it was always easier to laugh than to do just about anything else, especially when it was at his own expense.

"That's really impressive," he said. "I didn't know we could do things like that." He was supposed to be helping her, so he floundered for a bit to try and find something useful to say. "I think," he said after a pause, "that you should - that maybe that one's gonna be a bit iffy to deploy. I wouldn't bank on it hitting everyone the same. Maybe try to use it upfront and get the drop on them with it, might be better that way - get them when they're distracted." It was as much as he wanted to say, and to avoid elaborating he tried to move away from it.

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking it back in a movement like a nervous animal's, and finally smiled at her, swinging the bag on his wrist around on its little string in an absentminded sort of way.

"I don't think I've been that useful to you," he said, "but maybe we should call it there. Kinda wiped out. Probably shouldn't have gone to the gym before getting here. Don't tell Joy that I bailed out or she'll yell at me for overextending myself. If nothing else you've learned not to trust a handshake, yeah?"