Allairavar cants his head just a bit to the side, studying Guts through steady, golden eyes. His wings fan gently in the breeze, reflecting over how many times he'd worn the same look and how resistant he'd been to anything that didn't compliment the feelings that accompanied such a look.

"A broken body cannot swing a sword," Allairavar says after a long moment of thought and he sets aside his cup. "And I've seen many a warrior who refused to listen to what their body tells them die or be crippled. Sometimes it's necessary and circumstances won't allow for less." The corner of his mouth quirks up in a faint grin. "But sparring isn't that circumstance, yeah?"