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Harvard propped one hip against a training dummy, awaiting a certain pink-haired girl. He was quite sure he was about to be utterly destroyed by someone who looked less like a storm and more like a drizzle, but looks were deceiving.

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy

Don't judge her by her cover, Miserere.

there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair

Miserere. The weapon quieted, retreating to the back of his mind to murmur something in Latin. The sword always spoke - Harvard could tune it out quite often, luckily - in a voice that was neither strictly male nor female. When it sang, it sounded like a small choir. He waited, checking his phone for the time. Not having a working watch was truly annoying.

"Doctor," he said, smiling. "And no, I haven't been waiting long." Which was just as well - Harvard often left if people took too long to arrive. He usually had better things to do than wait.

He flexed the fingers of his hand and the silver ring there seemed to shimmer for a moment, then flow liquidly down, forming a slim sword. "Ready as ever, I supposed. What type of weapon do you have?"

"Worry?" He questioned. "I wasn't." Worry was not something he placed on the training field - he had no room or reason for worry. Harvard assumed Stormy had a level of hardiness he had not yet seen - based on the hints and pieces of odd bitterness he'd picked up from Twitter. She could handle herself against some green fellow like he was, even if he hit hard.

Harvard suddenly lunged forward, aiming for her shoulder.


HP: 40/40
DMG: 5
CHG: 1/3

As the flat of her blade hit him, Harvard tried to counter-attack, thrusting out his rapier in a failed attempt to reach her. Instead, he was flung. He staggered back once he finally regained his feet. It was a little like being a ping-pong ball and Stormy's sword was the paddle. Miserere's thin point seemed horribly mismatched. A silvery grumble sounded in his mind: Mis's discontent.

"No - I've read a bit where they've been mentioned. Miserere-" he gestured with the sword. "-tries, sometimes, but they are not eloquent in the normal ways."


HP: 25/40
DMG: 0
CHG: 1/3

"Close, but a slightly different song. Miserere mei is the full name. Presumably followed by deus. As far as I understand it, that song is the entirety of their name." Harvard expected another blow and when one did not come, he frowned slightly, eyes narrowing.

He waited, watching for her movement before feinting to the left and withdrawing. "Trying is good, Miserere is incapable, however. Would you like to know how they described you?"

HP: 25/40
DMG: 0
CHG: 1/3

"Quite," he said, amused by the organization's name. Somehow he doubted this place held mercy in it. Harvard watched as she squared up, defensive - she had decided not to decimate him entirely in the first few hits after all. However, it was not a defense he could breach. Stormy had been around on the island for some time and it showed in the way she carried herself when she held her (almost comically large) weapon.

It was funny that confidence didn't translate into the day-by-day. He moved forward, lashing out with Miserere, the sound of metal against metal oddly harsh. "Describe - 'your eyes half- thrush, half-angel and your drowsy' and 'there is the sweet shy pirouette your hair'." His weapon recited the words in his head as he spoke, and Harvard mimicked it, his voice taking on an odd sing-song quality. He moved to the side, sword point up.

"Not very coherent, I think. They only speak in poems and latin songs. There are not many words there to describe things like 'charges'."

HP: 25/40
DMG: 6
CHG: 2/3

"Taking?" he offered, aware he was interrupting. The way she'd spoken it was so personal, so alive in the way each syllable fell from her in long golden strands. There was a pull in him to keep her going, talking, finishing it. But he did not know how. Instead, he dragged the point of his blade along hers.

I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness

With that strike, his own weapon spoke. There was a strange urgency in Miserere's voice; Harvard could almost see the mercury-shimmer rising off each word. It twisted and floated in his head, demanding some sort of action. The runes glowed a vibrant, acid-like green, pulsing slightly as he looked down at the sword. That was new.

HP: 25/40
DMG: 2
CHG: 3/3

The next line was his, was theirs, he thought as the glow of Miserere's runes caught his eye. There was a twisting in his mind, the feeling of mouths opening, tongues sliding over sharp, thin teeth. Waiting. Something silver flashed in his mind and the smell of acid stung his nostrils. Miserere's edge gleamed wetly, a bubbling soft hiss rising from the corrosive liquid.

the sky a silver Dissonance by the correct

"The sky," he said, in tandem with his weapon. "a silver-" A hit. "Dissonance-" Another slash and he feinted to the left, a fine spray of acid slinging from his sword. "-by the correct." Then back. Harvard pulled back, looking slightly puzzled. He hadnt really expected to voice the nonsense spewing forth from Misrere.

The acid on the blade evaportated and Miserere coiled in his head, something distinctly alien about they way they were so pleased.

"Word's in your court, I suppose." He grinned.

HP: 25/40
DMG: 14
CHG: 0/3