Lancelot's lips curl into a smile as Diarmuid speaks, a little pleased at the compliment, and he dips his head a little in thanks.
"A little while," he echoes playfully, "assumes I will not adapt quickly once more. Perhaps I will have you on the defence sooner than you think."
He adjusts his footing a little, studies Diarmuid and the way he balances his weapon with one hand for a moment before bracing and flitting forward again -- darting around the side he holds his weapon. It's harder, he thinks, to guard with that hand than it is to cross the weapon across your body. Harder when you have to tilt awkwardly away from yourself or turn quickly. At least, he imagines it should be -- it would be with a sword.
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"A little while," he echoes playfully, "assumes I will not adapt quickly once more. Perhaps I will have you on the defence sooner than you think."
He adjusts his footing a little, studies Diarmuid and the way he balances his weapon with one hand for a moment before bracing and flitting forward again -- darting around the side he holds his weapon. It's harder, he thinks, to guard with that hand than it is to cross the weapon across your body. Harder when you have to tilt awkwardly away from yourself or turn quickly. At least, he imagines it should be -- it would be with a sword.