The crimson blade came to life with a snap-hiss. Mikhail stared at it for a moment. It had been forged by his hands and, though new, felt somehow right in them. He whirled the blade around, it's near weightlessness and gyroscopic effect difficult to control without attuned senses. He took a breath and remembered what he had been taught.
The Makashi form was the form of a duelist. It drew Mikhail's interest due to its ability to make a superior one-on-one combatant out of him. However, it ran contrary to Mikhail in philosophy. It emphasized precision strikes and control, when Mikhail only knew power and emotion. The blade hummed in his hands. He turned to the sparring droid and pointed the crimson blade at it. The droid activated its own weapon and Mikhail settled into a fighting stance.
A flash of yellow met a bar of crimson as the blades collided, sparks flashing from their violent embrace. Mikhail, one arm extended in a parry, took a step back and separated himself from the engagement. Makashi emphasized footwork, constant disengagements, and sudden reengagements. He brought his blade around in a series of light slashes followed by a sweeping feint-turned-jab. The droid parried all the attacks expertly in the manner of a Soresu practitioner, the most defensive of all the forms.
The droid saw an opportunity and struck out, Mikhail felt the heat of the yellow blade as he swayed out of the way, just barely avoiding it touching his midsection. He parried the next oncoming blow, feinted, and thrust, but was deflected again. Frustrated, Mikhail began to grow more power reliant in his strikes, until he was a blur of motion, abandoning accuracy and efficiency for the sake of raw strength. His blows were a series of feints and misdirections, thrusts and hacks. But despite his best efforts the sparring droid would not yield. Suddenly, the droid shifted its stance into its own Makashi form, with three precise strikes it cut through his guard and he received the metal heel of a droid foot in his chest.
He sprawled onto the ground, lightsaber still clutched in his grasp. Hostile eyes stared out with a blue stare so hostile it verged on electric. The droid met his gaze, unperturbed.
"Makashi utilizes its surroundings to a tactical advantage," the droid recited.
Mikhail grunted as he rose. "Abandon enslavement to form, I know."
"However, in your case, enslavement to form may be necessary. Temporarily."
Shorn glared at the droid, "Was that humor?"
"I am sorry, apprentice. The subtleties of human humor are not within my programming."
Mikhail snorted, "Yeah, sure."
He brought his blade up. Makashi was about more than control and precision strikes. It held a philosophy of controlling the fight. From surroundings, to verbal strikes and saber feints. Control through deception. Mikhail could do that. He struck out with a thrust, beginning a series of attacks and parries all over again.
The Makashi form was the form of a duelist. It drew Mikhail's interest due to its ability to make a superior one-on-one combatant out of him. However, it ran contrary to Mikhail in philosophy. It emphasized precision strikes and control, when Mikhail only knew power and emotion. The blade hummed in his hands. He turned to the sparring droid and pointed the crimson blade at it. The droid activated its own weapon and Mikhail settled into a fighting stance.
A flash of yellow met a bar of crimson as the blades collided, sparks flashing from their violent embrace. Mikhail, one arm extended in a parry, took a step back and separated himself from the engagement. Makashi emphasized footwork, constant disengagements, and sudden reengagements. He brought his blade around in a series of light slashes followed by a sweeping feint-turned-jab. The droid parried all the attacks expertly in the manner of a Soresu practitioner, the most defensive of all the forms.
The droid saw an opportunity and struck out, Mikhail felt the heat of the yellow blade as he swayed out of the way, just barely avoiding it touching his midsection. He parried the next oncoming blow, feinted, and thrust, but was deflected again. Frustrated, Mikhail began to grow more power reliant in his strikes, until he was a blur of motion, abandoning accuracy and efficiency for the sake of raw strength. His blows were a series of feints and misdirections, thrusts and hacks. But despite his best efforts the sparring droid would not yield. Suddenly, the droid shifted its stance into its own Makashi form, with three precise strikes it cut through his guard and he received the metal heel of a droid foot in his chest.
He sprawled onto the ground, lightsaber still clutched in his grasp. Hostile eyes stared out with a blue stare so hostile it verged on electric. The droid met his gaze, unperturbed.
"Makashi utilizes its surroundings to a tactical advantage," the droid recited.
Mikhail grunted as he rose. "Abandon enslavement to form, I know."
"However, in your case, enslavement to form may be necessary. Temporarily."
Shorn glared at the droid, "Was that humor?"
"I am sorry, apprentice. The subtleties of human humor are not within my programming."
Mikhail snorted, "Yeah, sure."
He brought his blade up. Makashi was about more than control and precision strikes. It held a philosophy of controlling the fight. From surroundings, to verbal strikes and saber feints. Control through deception. Mikhail could do that. He struck out with a thrust, beginning a series of attacks and parries all over again.