Despite being a peace-loving Order, the Jedi devote much of their time to learning the skills necessary in combat. There are many rooms for honing these skills, but today they stand in a plain arena, facing each other with training replicas of their lightsabers held loosely in their hands. In the benches arrayed above, several classes of younglings have gathered to watch their demonstration. Behind them are other Jedi, curious onlookers or students of the particular forms being shown today, though they come for one in particular – Sif, with the long hilt in her hand, is a rarity in the Order for her use not only of the so-called Sith lightsaber with its double blades, but her adoption of the Juyo form in addition to the ones more traditionally used with her style of lightsaber.
A soft bell rings, and the younglings hush as both Sif and her opponent ignite their blades. For some this is the first time they’ve seen the glowing, humming weapon that will perhaps one day be their trademark accessory, and they are appropriately awed. But they are dumbstruck when the spar begins.
Juyo is a form known for its aggressive, almost reckless offense; its fury and malignant grace. Most Jedi do not practice it for these reasons, but Sif has always sought out that which will make her better, stronger. Ambition in the service of the Order is not necessarily frowned upon, though there are those who mutter and say that someone who uses a form so close to violating one of the tenets of the Code is dangerous, half a Sith already.
But who can say such things, when the blades of Sif’s lightsaber are a blur and her opponent, his green blade barely keeping up with her strikes, finally falls under a hard strike to his forearm. These are training sabers, delivering painful jolts only, but the younglings gasp in comical unison. In one of the rows behind them, a large, blond Jedi chuckles as Sif puts the tip of one of the blades at the throat of her opponent.
“Do you yield?” she asks. For a moment her opponent does not respond, cannot respond, because the narrowed hazel eyes of the Knight above him have disarmed him as surely as her blade has. But Loki has never been at a loss for words before, and will not start now. He closes his own eyes, so he does not have to see hers.
“I yield,” he responds. For a moment more there is silence, and then the hiss as Sif deactivates her saber and holds out a hand to him, a smile on her lips as the younglings applaud.
“You spend too much time in the Archives,” she mutters out the side of her mouth as she bows to those watching. She doesn’t miss the very slight quirk of his lips, but the spike of amusement in his Force presence says more than words or expressions ever could.