Pitiful, you really call that swords play? You are like a child waving a stick. I could do so much better. Won't you let me?
Thrusting forward with my sword, I attempt to ignore that cold voice in my head.
"Shut up Severin," I growl under my breath, slicing again through the air, irritated at the distraction. How am I supposed to beat Alastor if Severin won't even keep his promise and stay quiet? Maybe it would be best if he did get put back to sleep for the next few hundred years or so. It certainly would be so much less of a headache.
Venting my frustrations, I take another jab and Alastor's fighting arm, guiding the sword swiftly through the air and only missing by an inch. I am getting closer. Between my fingers, an icy cold thrums into life, seemingly disgruntled.
