Silas was not, and had never been, a swordsman. He had always preferred the delicate art that was the longbow, a weapon of pure grace and refinement, not at all like the bullish and candid sword that one could swing about like psychopath. The delightful young man with Aryan blonde curls and boyish features was renowned for his agile skills with a bow, but when it came to the matter of the sword, he moved like a clumsy oxen. It was only under hours of training and a rather brute instructor that had given Silas any chance at handling a sword semi decently. Nevertheless, he leapt back neatly; his slim and athletic figure beginning to show signs of fatigue as he lifted his Arming Sword up to meet the oncoming Claymore.
“You better believe I’m getting better,” he teased in a light-hearted manner, “You’re going to start having competition soon when it comes to this whole sword matter,” Silas shifted his weight underneath the swords to keep his balance, stumbling ever-so slightly as his metal spurs caught in the grass and threw him off balance for a moment. He wore a pleasant smile, enjoying the workout and the rigorous training Claymore had been putting him through—intentional or not.