He caught the mock weapon in the recoil of her thrust, pulling hard to tear it from her hands. Shy was small, but she did not let go. The result was a bizarre follow through of her shoulders and then the rest of the sinewy body, barreling toward Esfelt as he upset her footing, but moving through space like it had been choreographed. She might be wonderful on the field with an uncanny elegance like that. She'd make a fool of her enemies as she died, turning their slaughter into a ridiculous dance. It didn't help that she had such a breakable looking face.<br/><br/>Shy must have understood his intent, because she was tense by the time his fist collided with her, with feet planted wide as they shoved into the dirt and her spine arching like a cat. In taking the force of his fist, she pulled back to recover the blade. With only one hand to pry the weapon from her and his own application of momentum in her favor,  she hissed and wrench the sword back in an upward arc. The training weapon was light, but its length in motion was enough to throw her weight above her center mass and throw her into a new direction. Off-axis, she twisted and dropped low, one hand and one foot planted on the ground as the sword-wielding hand and her free leg swept in a wide circle to try and catch a blow to the back of his knee as her swinging foot caught her balance.<br/><br/>It was an easily telegraphed maneuver, with it's wide motion, but would force him to dodge and-thereby-give Shy enough space to recover her own range of preference. At her size, she'd had to learn to be adept at both dodging and taking hits. Allowing herself to be stumbled and put off her game so easily would spell a quick slaughter. She was laughing, wiping spit from the corner of her lip as she danced back another three paces and rose back into a reasonable swinging stance. He'd hit her hard enough that it would probably hurt well into the evening, but it would take a lot more than that to knock the breath out of her lungs, these days.<br/><br/>Shy did not wait long, slinking back in and jabbing in quick, short gestures that would not give him the leverage to drag her so far again. She learned quickly enough. "Is it unfair to keep the sword, Ser, when you're unarmed?" she asked, grinning. She wasn't really offering to give the weapon up. In sparring, Marius had learned quickly that Shy's version of fairness was simply being allowed to use whatever resources one could hold on to in a fight. It had made her adaptable, but a pain in the ass to train, too. She'd developed her own, haphazard way of weaving around a ring and didn't see a point to playing at a disadvantage. Shy had always dealt with obvious disadvantages. They could all be equally required to overcome their own failings. In a way, she seemed to be demanding to be put in her place. If she couldn't adequately see where she was, how was she to find the next step forward? It was haughty, but it wasn't hubris.<br/><br/>In a rather bold move, she leapt toward him with the wooden blade arcing through the air. Whether he blocked her or took the hit, it would bring them to collide. The scent of lake water and sweat in her hair, and something faintly jasmine, her breath hot. She didn't have enough weight to topple him, but she'd come at him with enough momentum to test his footing and enough confidence that she must have had a plan to redirect her own ballistic movement when he responded.