Out in the training yard, Cyréne was watching her shield-brother carefully. He was up to something. If his wicked grin wasn't evidence enough, the confidence in his ice blue eyes was certainly proof. Usually, when they began this dance, he was cagey and intense, eyes watching her warily for her next move. Cyréne circled him cautiously.

Training with two-handed weapons had never been important to her. She excelled with a sword and shield, and could use either of them to block or kill. She was dangerously accurate with a bow, and steadily improving thanks to frequent hunts with Aela. In addition, she wasn't built for a great-sword and wasn't patient enough. In battle, she needed to feel able to move, to avoid hits rather than absorb them, and to strike quickly and then get out of the way. The far-flung scenario she'd spun for Vilkas when she asked for his help - of being stranded someday in an enemy encampment with only a two-handed weapon available - was just a way to secure her shield-brother's cooperation. No . . . asking Vilkas to train her had been for completely different reasons.

Vilkas turned cautiously. He watched Cyréne as she orbited him looking for an opening.

Much to his surprise, this little game of theirs had become something he looked forward to. Of course, there wasn't much about her that didn't surprise him at some point. He'd been having a particularly fucked-up day when she materialized from nowhere into the lower hall of Jorrvaskr. It did not help his mood in the least to have the beauty he'd been admiring around Whiterun for weeks effectively ignore him when she entered Kodlak's chambers. His barbed comments had barely drawn a disinterested flicker of her eyes in his direction. Instead, she and Kodlak had regarded each other intently – her attention fixed on the old man as though searching for a hidden meaning behind his every word.

She was crouched now, all lithe muscle and coiled energy. He assumed an evasive stance and she sprang for him. Vilkas stood swiftly and opened his arms. Catching her, he wrapped her to him. She released a small gasp of surprise and the two of them tumbled to the ground, laughing.

"I knew you were up to something, Shield-brother!"

Vilkas snorted. "For all the good it did you. Now perhaps, I've managed to prove my point?"

"What point? You had a point?"

He rolled his eyes and stood, helping her to her feet. "My point, that pouncing like a saber cat—no, kitten," he corrected himself, "pouncing like a saber-kitten is not a viable strategy in battle . . . unless you're fighting a ball of yarn."

"Or, you," she countered.

He made a grab for her and she danced out of his reach.

Grinning impishly, she started meowing at him. "Meow! Come on Vilky-Wilky, be my ball of yarn! Meow!"

Vilkas made another grab for her, which she evaded.

"Stop making cat sounds!" he growled, follwing her. "People will think you're mad. And don't call me that!"

Cyréne continued to move just out of his reach. "Sounds like you're the one who's mad, Vilky-Wilky," she teased.

Vilkas lunged for her. "I'm beginning to think your second strategy may be a viable one, though."

"And, what strategy is that?" she questioned, slowing slightly.

"Death by annoyance" he answered, finally managing to grab her by a wrist.

Cyréne made a face at him, and started twisting to get away from him. "You would think that strategy was better," she grumbled, "than being a saber kitten."

"And why is that?" he mocked. He captured her other wrist and trapped them both in one of his hands.

Cyréne's face grew serious and she stopped struggling. "Isn't it obvious?"

Her shield-brother arched a dark eyebrow at her, indicating that clearly, it was not.

Cyréne searched his face for a moment. "Cats are milk drinkers."

Vilkas closed his eyes and dragged his free hand down his face, willing himself not to laugh at her terrible joke. "You, are an idiot."

"An idiot you just chased to the top of Skyforge."

Vilkas glanced up and found that his pursuit had indeed taken them to the top of the stairs of the Skyforge where Eorlund stood frowning disapprovingly at them. Still in possession of both his shield-sister's wrists, Vilkas knelt and slung Cyréne over his shoulder.

She shrieked with laughter, "No, no, no…."

Vilkas smirked to himself and started down the steps, jostling her as much as possible on the way down.