A swing at the arm, sidestepped. A thrust at the chest, parried. Dilandau's eyes flash brighter than his sword as it sweeps through the air, aimed directly for his superior's head. He doesn't hold anything back in these sparring sessions, but then neither does Folken.

The older man blocks high and simultaneously calls for a halt before the younger can make another move. Folken doesn't know what the Sorcerors did to create Dilandau, but the young man actually seems to gain energy the longer he fights. Normal men—or those closer to normal, because nobody in Emperor Dornkirk's service merits the term on its own—will tire after half an hour's frenzied sparring, and these two have been at it for forty-five minutes.

Dilandau throws his sword down casually, a familiar sneer on his face. "Too much for you, Strategos?" he asks. Though he uses the term of respect, every syllable drips "old man."

In the beginning, Folken had responded to these little barbs, the hints that his time had come and gone. Now, he simply quirks a corner of his mouth and watches as his sometime protégé grimaces in fury. More than anything, Dilandau hates not fighting.

There is wine laid out for them on the table. Folken pours it into two glasses and takes his seat calmly, laughing inside when his companion vents his frustration by hurling himself forcefully into his chair. Dilandau stares morosely into his glass, running a finger over one cheek, then another. He's looking at his reflection.

Folken isn't sure, but he thinks it may be that the only thing Dilandau likes more than battle is the sight of his own face. Certainly there have been other times like this, when he has caught the younger man gazing contemplatively into a reflective surface. The eyes seem bluer in these times, less shockingly violet. Something about those eyes makes him feel as though they could be friends, the two of them, at some other time and in some other place, without sharing this purpose.

Dilandau looks up, eyes bluer than they've ever been before, and for a split second he seems confused by the man across from him. His face flushes, and he opens his mouth to speak: "Folken Fanel...?" For some reason he can't comprehend, Folken's heart twinges, and in this surreal moment he senses a gravity here, too. Then Dilandau's eyes are that unsettling shade of violet once more, and the words coming out of his mouth are typically venomous and poorly considered, and everything is back to normal.

As close to normal as you could get, serving Emperor Dornkirk.