Warren would be successful, proving the point of this whole exercise. Regan was forced to release her hold on his neck—not necessarily because her hold was broken, but because if she kept it she was liable to do damage. This was just a spar, after all, as Warren had so astutely pointed out to begin with.

Regan hit the ground in a crouch, whirling back around to come swinging. She’d try to get him behind the knee and bring him to the ground again.

Most practice spars were dignified affairs. They involved the calculated exchange of blows, fine footwork and finesse. But that wasn’t what Regan did best, nor was it what she enjoyed. Warren did pull Regan’s ankles out from underneath her, sending her to the ground on her back. She let Warren pull her close, seizing him by the shirt, a lopsided grin on her face as he crawled on top of her.

“Good one.” The copper veins in Regan’s eyes glowed as she thrust all her enhanced strength into a roll to put herself on top of Warren in a most undignified manner. She’d seek to straddle him and pin his hands above his head. If she was successful, Warren would see the slightest hint of fangs brushing her bottom lip before they retracted. It was a vision so fleeting he might think he’d imagined it. By the time the scuffle stopped her eyes would be dark again, her teeth very much human. If Warren continued to struggle, Regan would continue to wrestle. If not, she’d claim victory.

Regan smiled back, faint copper surging again in her eyes. Release: that’s what she’d been looking for. Like a spring she wound tighter and tighter until there was something to unwind her and provide a temporary reprieve. The fire under her skin still burned, but at least for the moment, it was under control. Regan dismounted Warren and offered him a hand to pull him from the ground.

Whether he took it or not, after Warren was on his own two feet Regan would look at the other two. “See?” She said with a sigh, “Leaning into your opponent's strengths. Know what yours are, because they’re also likely your weaknesses.” She looked at Zarha and Berengar, hands on her hips.

“You two next?”

For all he was supposed to be learning from the demonstration, Ber was rather more entertained than educated. Watching a satisfying spar was only second to fighting in one himself, and the entire experience was admittedly made better by knowing the parties involved, even if only by reputation. Lassiter fought with hints of a familiar scrappiness that reinforced his suspicions as to where her first fighting lessons took place. And Woodwick, well, he hadn’t really expected the Lieutenant to win after witnessing the Huntsman’s unusually strong blow to the punching bag earlier, but it was still satisfying seeing him on the ground rather than the rest of them. Not as satisfying as it would have been to put Woodwick there himself, but Ber would take what he could get.

Both of the officers climbed to their feet, and Lassiter addressed the two soldiers. Remembering belatedly that he was actively supposed to be learning something, Ber nodded - what else was he going to do, shake his head? - and glanced over at Sliva. Lean into his opponent’s strengths, but also keep in mind his own strengths because this exercise would turn them into weaknesses. …Right. This was why Ber was better at reacting in the heat of battle than strategizing ahead of time.

The invitation to spar was a welcome one. “Sure,” He said, taking Sliva’s silent walk to open space as tacit agreement. After a glance at Lassiter and Woodwick in case either of them had anything to add, he went to join her. As he sized her up, Ber shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, and stood with his knees slightly bent and feet about shoulder width apart. He brought his hands up in front of him, fingers curled in loose fists, and at the last minute, decided to wait for a moment to see if Lassiter or Woodwick would tell them to start. In the absence of such a call, he’d grin across at his opponent. “Alright, Sliva,” He would challenge her. “Come and get me.”

Old man? Sliva accepted the challenge, rushing forward with a flurry of punches. Having braced himself in anticipation of the attack, he sidestepped some and blocked the ones he couldn’t dodge. Though they were of similar heights, she was faster and more nimble on her feet, and all the experience in the world couldn’t stop him from taking some solid hits to the torso. Such was hand to hand combat. It only made the successful punches he threw at her all the more satisfying.

Of the two of them, Sliva was moving around far more - and therefore expending far more energy. Ber shifted to dodge and attack and try to trip her up, but he allowed his opponent to dance around all she liked. She might have been more agile, but he had fallen back onto old instincts. As a smaller child, he had relied on his relative speed and agility to win fights against stronger opponents - or, more commonly, survive them just long enough to run away - and as he found himself anticipating a portion of her attacks, he remembered the reason why he usually fled: agility was exhausting. Here, however, escape wasn’t an option. Eventually, Sliva would tire, and then he could overpower her and win the spar. Narrowly blocking a punch to his jaw, Ber grit his teeth. He just had to hold out until then.

Was this what Lassiter had meant, about strengths and weaknesses?

The bout continued. Finally tired of playing defense, Ber pushed back. And played dirty. Trying to punch, grapple, wrestle, grab, or shove her to the ground - whatever it took to win. Feeling the momentum shifting in his favor, he pressed the advantage and could almost taste victory when Sliva stole it from him completely by stepping back and forfeiting the match. Caught up in the heat of the fight and not anticipating this outcome, Ber barely managed to pull the punch he’d been about to deliver and step back himself. “What the fuck?” It was part genuine question, part irritation at having the spar end so abruptly and unsatisfactorily. Adrenaline thrummed through his veins as he stared at her, then looked back at Lassiter and Woodwick. “Can she do that?”