"Me neither." He shrugs, as best he can with his swordhand outstretched. "There's a guy where I'm from, famous mercenary, named his sword after his lady love." Nash shuddered inwardly at the thought— his missus was already sharp enough. "I never did."

Having taken the lead in the fight, Nash lunged again, quicker this time. It wasn't a particularly difficult move to dodge or to parry, but his goal was to provoke some sort of counter attack. (You couldn't back away forever, after all.) His fencing is likewise the sort the idle rich practices for sport. That's where his own training began, too, though he was long separated from that world, by time and by scandal.