Pushing Buttons

Lessons In Swordsmanship

Her combat skills were deplorable. It was a wonder just how she had managed to survive for this long.

Heimdall lost count as to how many times she had been knocked onto her behind, but it was still a hilarious sight to witness.

Thrúd was trying her hardest to offer instruction without marring the mortal too badly, but it was obvious that things weren't going well.

"You'd have better luck training a house to fly than for the likes of her to use a sword, guppy!" Heimdall called out to his niece.

Said teenager rolled her eyes and sighed. "Don't listen to him," She extended her blade, motioning to her opponent's feet. "You're quick, but your timing is off. Look for an opening, and don't hesitate."

She nodded, and readied herself again. Their sparring continued, accompanied by unnecessary and downright degrading comments from the God of Foresight.

"Behind you, Ditzy~."

"Wow, you are hopeless."

"I've seen toddlers handle a sword better than that."

It was only when Thrúd disarmed her that the tired mortal turned to face him. "Ever heard the phrase, 'if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all'?"

"Ha!" Thrúd scoffed, "Trust me, the day a nice word comes out of my uncle's mouth is the day trees start growing in Asgard. And not even Vanir magic could help with that."

"And with this little rat training you, you'll end up dead the next time you step foot into a real fight." He taunted.

She ignored him, and raising her weapon, turned back to face Thrúd. "Again." A few swings of her blade later, and she was stumbling face-first into the mud again.

Heimdall laughed, much to their obvious annoyance. "Oh, it would seem that you truly cannot teach an old dog new tricks."

Despite her humiliating defeat, she pushed herself back up, looking down in disdain at the amount of mud clinging to her clothes and skin. An irritated growl escaped her lips. Thrúd had called her name, but she waved the teenager off, muttering, "I can handle this myself," under her breath.

Her eyes turned to him, but he was still positively tickled pink by her clumsiness and misfortune. "You know, between you and the little half-breed, I'm not entirely sure who's more useless." His wide grin refused to fade, even when she sauntered towards him.

"Having fun, Heimdall?" She asked, her tone almost sickeningly sweet.

"Much," He all but purred.

Those pretty lips pulled into a soft smile. "Hm, good."

Her movements were natural, but precise. A glimmer of mischief had sparked in her eyes, but by time he had realized what she was actually going to do, it had been too late. Her hand, caked in a fresh layer of mud from her previous fall, smacked onto his forehead, and wiped down the front of his face in one long and drawn out motion. But oh no, no, to add insult to injury, she had grabbed his tunic with her other hand, smearing and swirling the dirt all over his chest.

Thrúd's gasp had pierced the silence. Though, the hand that quickly covered her mouth was more to hide the smile and muffled laughter that was slowly rising in her chest.

Hands on her hips, she took a step back, looking over her handiwork. "Oh," she feigned shock, "Heimdall! You should really go and clean that off. There's no telling what kind of gossip might arise if you continue to walk around looking like that."