Dante had been very focused recently on his studies. Academic studies. He'd done so much reading and note-taking and memorizing and magic practicing lately. And this was his favorite kind of learning, but he knows that if he's going to be one of the Chosen Knights of the Guardians, he needs to continue to practice his physical skills as well.
He'd wandered down to the sparring arena, staff in hand. Normally some of the other Squires haunted this area, especially the ones more inclined to solve problems with violence. He doesn't particularly want to practice with them, mostly because he doesn't feel like spending tonight in the healer's wing, but he'd take what he received.
Nobody here. Strange, thinks Dante as he peeks around in the spectator's stands. Perhaps everyone was studying their books, for a change. He laughs silently. Well, he might as well practice his form. Maybe someone would interrupt him. He stands in the middle of the arena and grasps his staff in both hands. He'd carved this staff himself, and aims to make it feel like an extension of his body. He rubs his thumbs in the dimples in the wood.
Closing his eyes, Dante visualizes an enemy in front of him, dark and shapeless, with deep, sad eyes. He points the tip of his staff at his imaginary foe, then whirls around, catching it in the side. He smiles, satisfied with himself.
