[ The way Verso fights is nothing like the way he plays piano, aside from a similar feeling of precision, the familiarity of long practice. He's a blur of vicious motion, the blades of his sword and dagger whipping around in a deadly whirlwind that slashes into the Nevron like its armor is tissue-thin. And even when the thing whirls and swings its club, he's ready, springing lithely into the air, all beauty and power and lethal grace.
Gustave could watch him all day, but it seems Verso isn't planning for this to be another performance worthy of flowers from his Monsieur le fleuriste; he flicks a glance Gustave's way, head tipping in visible challenge. He might as well be back there, sun-drenched on the garden's bricks and grass, egging Gustave on with every scrape of his nails and flicker of a smile on that sly, perfect mouth.
Well: if he wants a partner in this fight, Gustave is more than happy to deliver. Before the Nevron can find its focus on him again, he's already dashing in, chroma streaking from the blade of his sword and the muzzle of his pistol as he deals out a handful of hard, sweeping strokes, launching himself into the air to bring his sword around over him in a killing blow as hard as he can before he's slipping adroitly back again, sword up once more, defensive.
Which is good, because the Nevron swings at him next, and he's only just darted back far enough to flick his sword in a parry rather than let himself be crushed. The blow glances off and the Nevron lifts the club again, turning toward Verso.
Gashes from their two blades litter its thick hide; it's bleeding from a half-dozen wounds. None of them are enough yet to drop it, but it does seem to be moving a little more slowly as it seeks out the source of its irritation, that club ready to fall with all the deadly force of a rockslide. ]
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Gustave could watch him all day, but it seems Verso isn't planning for this to be another performance worthy of flowers from his Monsieur le fleuriste; he flicks a glance Gustave's way, head tipping in visible challenge. He might as well be back there, sun-drenched on the garden's bricks and grass, egging Gustave on with every scrape of his nails and flicker of a smile on that sly, perfect mouth.
Well: if he wants a partner in this fight, Gustave is more than happy to deliver. Before the Nevron can find its focus on him again, he's already dashing in, chroma streaking from the blade of his sword and the muzzle of his pistol as he deals out a handful of hard, sweeping strokes, launching himself into the air to bring his sword around over him in a killing blow as hard as he can before he's slipping adroitly back again, sword up once more, defensive.
Which is good, because the Nevron swings at him next, and he's only just darted back far enough to flick his sword in a parry rather than let himself be crushed. The blow glances off and the Nevron lifts the club again, turning toward Verso.
Gashes from their two blades litter its thick hide; it's bleeding from a half-dozen wounds. None of them are enough yet to drop it, but it does seem to be moving a little more slowly as it seeks out the source of its irritation, that club ready to fall with all the deadly force of a rockslide. ]