He had been quite surprised at how easy it had been to talk her into taking a break from it all. Despite what she says, he can tell she is not one to simply walk away from anything, even if she's tired or, to use another term, getting burnt out.

He can still tell that the burden of the death is pulling at her, as is the weight of whatever it is that is making her down, but he had promised to help in any way he can, anyone that can be helped. And since coming to the Vale, he's been more reminded of home - his own home, a place he had felt comfortable and at ease - than he has anywhere else in RhyDin.

The power of the place and peacefulness of it are what lure him.

The shadows close behind them as he lets his grip on them go. Looking around, he is pleased to see that the Vale is every bit as welcoming in the night as it is in the day. The moon overhead bathes the place in a dappled, soft light that reminds him of nights spent walking in the woods near his old home back on Earth.

His eyes follow Shariane as she walks ahead of him from where he stops, dark eyes gleaming for a moment with golden light as he looks her over, a curiously heady feeling surging through him.

As a friend, you said. Let whatever else comes in time come, but for now, a friend. A soft sigh slips from him as he turns his eyes away.

A smile is on his lips as soon as they set foot in the Vale. That sense of power, peaceful and yet somehow tempestuous, floods his being as though he had just stepped into sunlight.

Like home had been.

Sadness, at that thought, brief but poignant, as though mourning the loss of an old friend he had known all his life.

It passes in a real hurry, though, as Shari walks ahead, bidding him to come and see the gown of her kinswoman, soon to be Lupinius' wife.

For a moment, as she walks ahead, his eyes settle over the lines of her body, looking her over in full detail as she is not looking directly at him. He would not be human if he said he was not pleased with the sight. A flicker of a memory flashes past his mind, when he had said a line that had been more than slightly flirtatious. Color touches his cheeks for a moment, along with a momentary wish that that attraction might be mutual.

He pushes it away. Whatever happens, he won't push. That thought firm in his mind, he follows after her.

Darkened eyes look over the gown draped over the form of a woman, just about Onyxia's dimensions. Those eyes glow with golden light for a moment as a smile touches his lips, and he walks around the gown, his pace slow, deliberate in his movements, hands clasped at the small of his back, bearing erect.

It's almost like watching a military leader inspect his troops. Even the look of critical observation is there, as he walks around, eyes looking up and down the gown.

Finally, he comes back around to her side. It's not until he's there that he takes a more relaxed stance. "So...you've got looks...magic...skills with clothing...tell me, is there anything you can't do?"

He chuckles easily at the first quip. Cooking, fortunately, was something he had taken the time and pains to learn. the chuckle dies, though, as the second admission is spoken, and what he does next is done without thinking. Perhaps it's the tear he sees trailing down over her cheek. He's never had any children, for his part - he's never found anyone he's been willing to try with, and the world he had come from, he had deemed to cruel of a place to bring children into.

His own life had been harsh enough.

He steps closer to her, slipping his arms about her waist and pulling her close gently. He couldn't say why, other than he genuinely wants to, and he does feel for her. And - he hopes - this would be something a friend would do for another.

He's had few enough of those, and not much in the way of experience with something like this - being friends with someone he's actually attracted to. It'll take some getting used to, whatever becomes of it.

For a long moment, he simply holds her close, before he speaks again. "As trite as it sounds, Shariane, we all make mistakes - the important part is that you learn from them." He looks down at her, a kind smile on his face. "I'm not going to judge you on the mistakes you've made - I prefer to make my judgements on who someone is here and now, not what they may have been in the past."

It is a long moment before he moves again. He doesn't want to, in the slightest - not only does he very much like having her held this near - she feels so good in his arms - but the embrace feels very comfortable.

Friendly, yes.

But there's more to it than that. He can feel something else.

Friends?

Reluctantly, he steps back, though every fiber of his being wants to protest. All things in their time, Michael. Patience in all things...some things can't - and shouldn't - be rushed.

As he looks around, he spies what looks like a long, slender sword. He hasn't stepped completely back from her, hishands rest - almost casually - on her waist. The grin on his face broadens into a true smile. "And who belongs to that lovely instrument?" He bows his head in the direction of the sword.

He nods, walking over to the sword. His eyes flicker with golden light a moment as he looks into the astral, examining the sword and its various enchantments.

Under his gaze, it glistens brilliantly, throwing its own light into the room around it, a thing that could not be seen with normal sight. His brother had been the one to teach him the technique of seeing into the astral world, how to interpret what he saw.

Since coming here, he had been lost - so many different kinds of magic, all visible, but none that he can truly understand. It'll take some getting used to. He blinks his eyes, that flicker of light in them showing itself again as he brings his vision back to the normal spectrum.

He reaches under the long duster he's wearing, into the shadows under it, and pulls out the sheathed form of a katana, the handle carved from silver, a serpent's body writhing around the handle, the pommel shaped in a hooded cobra's head, mouth open and fangs bared, as if ready to strike. The sheath that the blade rests in is grey-green in color, almost resembling some sort of stone.

"This was my mother's. It has its own...enchantments on it, mostly meant for magical spirits of a certain type. But it is a good sword even for a mundane fight."

Suddenly he grins, a mishievous little glint showing in his eyes as he looks up at Shariane's sowrd, then back at her. "You wouldn't, by chance, be interested in a little sparring session, would you?"

His motivations in the question are many, of course. Practice, to see if she's any good. But the first among them is to see what she looks like with the blade in her hands, to see her move.

Something tells him he won't be disappointed.

He grins back at her, the flickering of golden light touching his eyes as they rake along her form, taking in the doctor, sword in hand. Quite the lovely picture, she makes, and a soft laugh can be heard coming from him as he answers.

"It'd be my pleasure, utsukushii," he says, using the Japanese word for 'beautiful'.

He follows her downstairs, his eyes glued to every motion as she walks along. When they finally reach the open area for their little match, he sets the katana, sheath and all, down for a moment as he removes the long, leather duster he's wearing and tosses it indifferently to the side. He drops her a bow at the waist, low and slow, a smile on his lips but seriousness in his eyes, a gesture of respect and honor. Finally, he nudges the sheathed sword with his foot and flips it into the air, sheath and all, catching it with a smooth, practiced motion, before drawing the blade out.

The blade itself gleams mellowly in the light, its polished surface showing a hamon along the length of the blade that is a near-perfect, gently curving sine wave from the point all the way down to the hilt. The blade rings with a beautiful, almost meausical sound of steel vibrating into the silence, and for just a moment it seems as if there is a glimmer of faint, reddish light that sheens over the blade's surface.

The sword moves, almost as if it has its own life, in a smooth, perfect circular motion in his hand - one, twice, thrice - before it comes to rest in a ready position in front of him, his motion stilled as he regards her.

The look on his face is a combination of many things - measuring, wariness, kindness, honor, anticipation, excitement.

The katana is twirled yet again in that same, almost leisurely manner, the blade making a faint whistling sound as it moves, as though it is slicing the very air itself. There's something about the teasing gesture as she crooks her fingers, beckoning him in, that makes him grin. Even with the sword in hand, the twirling motions of the blade around her and the confident way she moves - all of which alert him that she most certainly knows what she's doing - there is something about that gesture and the vision of her with blade in hand that unistakably says 'come hither.'

For a moment, as he begins circling, he debates whether to reach into that deep well of his own magics, bringing out those enhanced abilities - speed, reflexes, enhancing his own skills with the blade...so many others that are an aid in this kind of combat.

No. Not yet. Testing first. See what she is capable of before turning up the heat. Surprise her.

He is shocked by the analytical and cold voice in his mind - the one that always seems to take over in these moments. And yet even in that shock, he is looking over her stance, looking for vulnerabilites, places to strike, openings in her defense.

Is it wrong to find her nearly irresistable and yet still think of how I could potentially bring her down? one part of him asks.

Probably, another part answers, before he focuses again.

The sword is twirled yet again, this time in a lightning-fast blur of motion, coming up and ending with the point held forward, sharpened edge up, the blade nearly level with his own eyes as he walks a slow, sideways circle around her, his free hand held forward towards her as he begins moving closer in that circle.

His face has hardened, eyes steely and dark, a look of complete and utter focus, to the exclusion of all else but her.

There is still, funnily enough, that one small corner of his mind that reflects that she looks utterly desirable with that sword in hand.

A moment later he moves, a smooth, darting motion like a snake striking, the blade whipping so fast that the air seems to utter a thin whistle of protest as it comes down and across, aiming across her chest.

The parry is faster than he had expected. It's hard for him to see this lovely woman, a healer and a protecter, as being an equal opponent, and there had been a part of him that had winced as the sword came at her chest, just enough for him to pull the blow just a tad.

That was a mistake, as the parry throws him slightly off balance.

Even in that moment, though, he's adjusting, even as his mind marvels at the speed of her reaction and admits to himself that perhaps he had made an error in judgement in trying to take it easy on her.

A shift of weight, moving his body in a whirl of motion as he turns to the left in a fast circle.

No pulling the blow this time, but not drawing on anything yet, the sword flashes up and around, this time a long, diagonal cutting motion aimed for the abdomen, keeping the offensive.

Rather than avoid the blow, he meets her sword with his own, catching the blade on the back of his. As steel meets steel and sparks fly, he locks the blow, holding her blade with his won as he steps in closer, his own ddark eyes holding hers for a long moment.

What would be seen in his is an unreadable depth, a deep, dark pool in which no indication of anything below the surface can be seen. The expression on his face is unreadable as well, cool and dispassionate in its own way, but intensely focused.

For a long moment, that close proximity and the distant look in her own eyes catches his attantion for a moment. He knows the look, that of one locked into the dance of death, into the combat. A warrior's look.

For just a moment, he wonders what he's gotten himself into.

A subtle turning of the katana as he steps to the side, allowing hers to slide against it slowly as he gets a little more distance from her. That distant corner of his mind reflects that this should be very, very interesting indeed.

The sweep to his legs is unexpected, and suddenly, as he draws on just the very beginnings of the power held within him, time stretches out, seems to slow down subtly, and he has time enough to admire the gracefulness of her form, the sinews at work beneath her skin, revealed beneath his admiring gaze.

As her blade nears his legs, he leaps up into the air, lifting his legs over the sword and bringing his own down in a swift, circular motion in the same direction she is swinging, striking it with enough force to knock it with greater momentum along its current path. As he comes down to the floor again from the air, he spins yet again, the momentum from his own swing bringing him around.

The katana is brought around as he spins, the sharp edge of the blade coming around with him. A turn of the head, spying his target down low, and the sword is tracking towards her neck, his body moving with whiplike precision.

The sweep to his legs could be stepped over, or jumped over, or back from to avoid it. Indeed, he is more than fast enough to avoid such an attempt to knock him off of his feet.

But it is here that a tight grin shows itself on his face. The fight has now truly begun, and he has not reached a fraction of his own top speed. Indeed, he can sense she is touching her own magics, through his own senses that have awakened as soon as he drew upon his own wells of power to enhance his already formidable speed. Rather than up the tempo, he takes another direction.

The power is drawn upon again, the sudden feel of solidity in his legs surging just in time for her foot to meet his leg.

It is no more than flesh that her foot meets. He can feel the shock of the impact, and knows that - later - he'll have a bruise that would be the envy of every hard-core biker he'd ever met. But the impact has every bit the same effect as if she had just kicked a rooted tree.

Which is to say, none at all.

As soon as the impact bounces off of him, he releases the grounding effect and leaps forward, one leg extended, the other bent, as he rolls forward, the motion bringing the extended leg over and down towards her chest.